OF 


CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  AHGELES 


HOWDY  ALL 

And  Other  Care-free  Rhymes 

By 
WILLIAM  HERSCHELL 


Author  of 

SONGS  OF  THE  STREETS  AND  BYWAYS 

THE  KID  HAS  GONE  TO  THE  COLORS 

THE  SMILE-BRINGER 

ETC. 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


Printed  «n  the  United  States  of  America 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  *  CO 

BOOK  MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


To 

JIM  McCORMICK 
EDITOR 

Who  taught  me  it  is  easier  to  swing  a  pencil 
than  a  hammer. 


2130132 


To  The  Indianapolis  News  and  The  Red  Book 
the  author  expresses  his  gratitude  for  permission 
to  reprint  the  verses  contained  in  this  volume. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AIN'T  BOYS  FUNNY?   .    ..     »     .    „.    .     .    ,.,    -..    ,..    .  143 

AT  GRANNY'S    HOUSE 41 

AT  MONTICELLO    DAM 122 

BARNYARD   BAND,  THE 47 

BELOVED   FAT   MAN,  THE 131 

BLUE    SMOKE 120 

BOOKWORM,  THE 39 

BOY  NEXT  DOOR  TO   THE  CIRCUS,   THE 3 

BREAKIN'   IN 81 

BUTTER-BREAD   BANDIT,  THE 29 

CHAWBERRY 25 

CLOUD-CHILDREN 49 

CREEK  THAT  RUNS  THROUGH  TOWN,  THE     ....    45 

DESERTED  INN,  THE 60 

DOCTOR    GRIN 115 

EMPTY  JUG 68 

EVE   ETERNAL 70 

FREE    SHOW,    THE 72 

FUNNY  CAKES  THE  BAKER  MAKES,  THE      ....    66 

GARDEN   PATRIOT,  A 145 

GIGGLEBUG,   THE in 

GLORIOUS   FIRST,   THE 98 

HAVE  You  BEEN  To  SEE  "OCTOBER"? 56 

HECK  HUTTON 9 

HILLS    OF    INDIANA,    THE 14 

HOWDY   ALL  ,    .      i 


CONTENT  S— Continued 

PAGE 
HYMN-SING!^    JlM IO4 

IF  EVERYTHING  WENT  JUST  So 75 

IN    MEMORY'S    GARDEN 62 

INDISPENSABLE   DOBBIN,  THE 133 

"Is  'AT  So?" 31 

KITCHEN   PUMP,  THE 93 

LATTICED   PRISONER,   THE 12 

LIGHTS  OF  FIVE  O'CLOCK,  THE 7 

LITTLE  GRAY   CHURCH  IN    THE  CIRCLE 64 

LITTLE  MISTER  FIXER  MAN 85 

LITTLE  THING  CALLED  "Gooo  MORNING,"  THE    ...     91 

I.OG  OF  THE  LlMPY  LOU,  THE 83 

"MAKIN'S,"  THE 128 

MIGRANT    MELODY,    A 96 

MOODS   OF   WINTER,   THE 113 

NEIGHBORS 51 

OLD   MAN 136 

OLD  MAN'S  CHRISTMAS  SHOP,  THE 102 

OLD  YEAR,  THE 135 

PASSING  OF  THE  COMIC,  THE 117 

PATIENT   FRIEND,   THE 54 

PIPE  OF  PEACE,  THE 124 

POSTMASTER  TREE 20 

PUNKINHEADS 37 

PUPS   AND   A    BOY 109 

RIDIN'    AROUND 33 

ROOF-TOP    REVERIE,    A 138 

RUBBERNECKS,   THE 18 

RUNAWAY  SHOES,  THE     . 35 


CONTENT  S— Concluded 

PAGE 

SAID  THE  TRAFFIC  COP,  SMILINGLY 89 

SECOND-HAND  HOSSES 100 

STREET  SCALE,  THE 43 

TANTALIZIN'    DAYS 53 

TRADER  IN  DREAMS,  THI 27 

TREE   DOCTOR,  THE 147 

TREE  NOBODY  BOUGHT,  THE 87 

VANISHED    FORUM,    THE 79 

WAYFARER'S  VALENTINE,  THE 58 

WAYSIDE  WORLD,  A 77 

WHAT  THE  TOYMAKER  THINKS 126 

WHEN  AIN'T  NOBODY  HOME 16 

WHEN  MOTHER  RUBS  IT  IN 140 

WHEN  SUGAR  WAS  UP 5 

WHEN  TH'    FIREMENS  COME 107 

WHO  SAYS  WHEN  IT'S  MARBLE  TIME          ....  22 


V 


HOWDY  ALL 

THERE  are  some  who  give  their  greetings 

In  an  arctic  sort  of  way ; 
Some  who  make  us  kind  of  doubtful 

As  they  "pass  the  time  of  day" ; 
But  there's  one  we'll  always  cherish, 

For  we  like  his  cheery  call 
As  he  passes  by  each  morning 

Singing  out  his  "Howdy  all!" 

It's  the  same  to  rogue  and  righteous, 

It's  the  same  to  cad  and  churl; 
It's  a  joy  to  man  and  woman, 

It's  a  thrill  to  boy  and  girl. 
He  will  make  you  feel  as  royal 

As  a  king  in  palace  hall, 
As  he  waves  his  hand  and  greets  you 

With  his  smiling  "Howdy  all!" 


HOWDY  ALL 

At  the  wedding  feast  his  presence 

Gives  good  omen  to  the  day ; 
He  is  welcome  where  there's  sorrow — 

Where  he  is  no  tear  can  stay. 
Why,  perhaps  poor  Humpty  Dumpty 

Still  might  be  upon  the  wall 
Had  he  never  lost  his  balance 

Chuckling  at  some  "Howdy  all!'* 

Howdy  all's  a  joy-magician 

Welcome  everywhere  he  goes ; 
Where  he  plants  a  friendly  greeting, 

There  a  day  of  gladness  grows. 
I've  a  thought  that  when  the  curtain 

Called  Eternity  shall  fall, 
He  will  start  the  angels  laughing 

When  he  sings  out  "Howdy  all!" 


THE  BOY  NEXT  DOOR  TO  THE  CIRCUS 

WHEN  Pa  an'  Ma  they  move  ag'in — • 
They're  allus  movin'  out  er  in — 
I'm  goin'  to  say  to  them :  "Gee  whiz, 
Let's  move  out  where  th'  circus  is!" 

I  know  a  guy  whose  backyard  fence 
Goes  right  up  to  th'  circus  tents, 
An'  he  can  sit  right  there  an'  see 
Th'  whole  dog-gone  menagerie! 

His  alley's  where  th'  show  comes  in, 
An'  then,  at  night,  goes  out  ag'in. 
He  sees  more  stuff  on  circus  day 
Than  folks  'at  go  an'  haf  to  pay. 

He  gits  to  hear  th'  keepers  cuss 
Th'  big  ole  hippopotamus, 
An'  gee,  his  alley  fence  is  right 
Where  all  th'  roustabouters  fight. 
3 


THE  BOY  NEXT  DOOR  TO  THE  CIRCUS 

Say,  he  can  tell  you  to  th'  dot 
How  many  clowns  th'  show  has  got. 
An'  somethin'  else — he  says  he  knows 
Th'  guy  'at  trims  th'  tiger's  toes. 

He  knows  th'  bosses  by  their  names, 
An'  he's  fed  lions,  too,  he  claims  ; 
Oh  yes,  an'  he  says  he  give — once — 
Terbacker  to  th'  elephunts! 

He  ist  knows  everything  about 
A  circus  show — inside  an'  out! 
But  what  gits  me,  he  acts  so  swell 
'Cause  they  git  water  from  his  well ! 

When  Pa  an'  Ma  they  move  ag'in — 
They're  allus  movin'  out  er  in — 
I'm  goin'  to  say  to  them :  "Gee  whiz, 
Let's  move  out  where  th'  circus  is !" 


WHEN  SUGAR  WAS  UP 

Fings  is  actin'  mighty  queer 
'Tween  myself  an'  Muwer  dear. 
Muvver  she  ist  act  like  she 
Ain't  got  one  bit  use  for  me. 
'Specially  I've  noticed  that 
When  I'm  where  our  sugar's  at. 

Muvver  all  time  used  to  say : 
"You  ain't  e't  a  fing  to-day. 
Guess  I'll  maybe  haf  to  bake 
My  sweet  child  a  sugar  cake. 
Maybe  make  some  candy,  too, 
Tore  I  git  my  bakin'  through." 

Yes,  an'  ever'  day  she'd  spread 
Sugar  on  my  butter  bread, 
But  she  don't  do  that  no  more 
Like  she  used  to  do  before. 
Sugar's  all  ist  for  herself 
Hid  away  upon  our  shelf. 
5 


WHEN  SUGAR  WAS  UP 

I  ist  sit  an'  suck  my  fumbs 
But  no  sugar  never  comes. 
Nen  if  I  start  in  to  squall, 
Muvver  she  don't  care  at  all. 
Muvver  she  ist  says :    "Gee  whiz ! 
Sugar's  scarcer'n  babies  is !" 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  FIVE  O'CLOCK 

WHEN  the  Lights  of  Five  O'Clock  come  on, 
Man's  afterglow  to  a  day  that's  gone, 
I  find  it  pleasant  to  sit  and  dream 
Who  fares  beneath  each  friendly  beam. 
From  my  window  here  I  watch  them  glow; 
Some  far  above  me  and  some  below ; 
Some  are  as  soft  as  a  baby's  kiss, 
Some  flare  forth  with  an  emphasis. 

Up  in  the  heights,  where  the  roof  and  sky, 
Play  with  the  smoke-waves  wafting  by, 
I  see  a  girl,  in  the  shadowed  light, 
Peer  far  out  in  the  deepening  night. 
She  prays  fair  weather!    For  soon  her  feet 
Will  dance  with  Love  in  a  rhythmic  beat. 
Toil-wearied  now — that  will  soon  be  gone, 
For  the  Lights  of  Five  O'Clock  are  on! 

7 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  FIVE  O'CLOCK 

I  see  men  hurry,  I  see  some  sway 
With  fag  that  comes  at  the  close  of  day. 
I  see  some  laugh,  though  some  may  sigh ; 
See  typewriters  closed  and  books  laid  by. 
Now  is  a  woman — her  hair  grown  gray- 
Putting  the  wares  of  her  shop  away. 
There  goes  an  errand  boy — on  the  run! — 
With  the  mail  in  post  his  day  is  done ! 

When  the  Lights  of  Five  O' Clock  come  on, 
Man's  afterglow  to  a  day  that's  gone, 
I  find  it  pleasant  to  sit  and  dream 
Who  fares  beneath  each  friendly  beam. 
And,  oh,  I  hope,  as  each  light  goes  out, 
It  sends  none  home  with  a  sigh  or  doubt. 
Instead,  may  Happiness  find  its  dawn 
When  the  Lights  of  Five  O' Clock  come  on ! 


8 


HECK  HUTTON,  down  at  Tailholt,  he's  my  sub- 
ject fer  to-day, 

An'  I'd  like  to  make  you  know  him  in  an  under- 
standin'  way. 

Philosopher  an'  joker,   an'   a  Jack-of-all-trades, 
too, 

Heck  never  shies  at  nothin'  that  a  human  hand 
can  do. 

His   humble   shop,   vine-covered,   fronts   a   little 
byway  street, 

Where  th'  un-elected  statesmen  of  th'  town  an' 
country  meet. 

9 


HECK  HUTTON 

Heck  doctors  ailin'  harness  or  he'll  give  your 

shoes  a  sole; 
He'll  make  your  pump  give  water  if  there's  water 

in  th'  hole. 
Th'  wimmen  bring  their  pots  an'  pans  to  him  from 

miles  around, 
An*  they  know,  too,  that  in  his  shop  their  men 

folks  can  be  found. 
Yes,    sir,    they'll   always    find    'em    there,    each 

argyin'  to  see 
How  fur  from  Heck's  position  all  th'  rest  can 

disagree. 

Heck's  always  crowded  full  o'  facts — an'  figgers, 
too,  I'll  state — 

So  don't  go  at  him  half-informed  when  itchin' 
fer  debate! 

But,  to  my  mind,  Heck's  funniest  when  he  be- 
gins, off-hand, 

A-talkin'  scientific  stuff  th'  rest  don't  understand. 

He  gits  all  loaded  up  with  facts  that  can  not  be 
denied, 

Then  holds  th'  boys  in  magic  spell — just  clean, 
plum  mystified! 
10 


HECK  HUTTON 

Heck  Hutton,  down  at  Tailholt,  ain't  concerned 

with  wealth  or  style; 
He'll  take  a  grin  most  any  time  an'  swap  it  fer  a 

smile. 
He  may  be  just  a  tinker  on  th'  common  wares 

of  life, 
But  Heck's  a  true  mechanic,  too,  at  patchin'  woe 

an*  strife. 
Fact  is,  good  old  Heck  Hutton  binds  my  soul  to 

this  belief — 
That  smile  o'  his  could  solder  up  th'  leaky  eyes 

of  Grief! 


THE  LATTICED  PRISONER 

EACH  sunny  day,  when  passing  by, 

I  catch  the  twinkle  of  her  eye; 

I  find  a  gladness  in  her  smile 

That  makes  my  passing  well  worth  while. 

There's  Heaven  in  the  face  of  her — 

My  little  latticed  prisoner  1 

It  is  not  hard  to  understand 
Why  she  is  held  with  sturdy  hand. 
But  for  that  latticed  gate  she'd  be 
Engaged  in  roving  witchery, 
For  as  it  is  she  holds  complete 
The  royal  thraldom  of  our  street 

12 


THE  LATTICED  PRISONER 

I  see  her  glances  range  afar 

And  wonder  what  her  dream-thoughts  are. 

She  knows  the  world  goes  on  somewhere 

Beyond  the  corner  of  the  square. 

The  Grocery  Boy,  the  Mail  Man,  too, 

Go  down  that  way  and  pass  from  view. 

How  long,  she  wonders,  must  she  wait 
Till,  challenging  her  latticed  gate, 
Her  feet,  grown  bolder,  may  be  free 
To  leave  the  Porch  of  Infancy  ? 
The  Corner  first — and  then  the  Square — 
And  then  the  boundless  Everywhere ! 


THE  HILLS  OF  INDIANA 

THE  HILLS  of  Indiana 

All  are  happy  hills  to  me, 
A  page  of  high-and-byway 

Out  of  God's  geography. 
The  prairies  may  be  richer 

In  their  providential  soil. 
But  give  me  hills  for  haven 

When  I'm  tired  of  men  and  toil. 

The  hills  of  Indiana 

Roll  and  tumble  all  about 
As  children  do,  at  bedtime, 

When  they  have  their  riot  out. 
The  comradeship  of  nature 

Is  a  comradeship  of  all ; 
The  big  hills  never  bully 

Little  hills  because  they're  small. 

«4 


THE  HILLS  OF  INDIANA 

The  hills  of  Indiana 

Are  not  so  unfriendly  steep 
They  glory,  like  a  hermit, 

In  a  lone,  seclusive  sleep. 
Instead  they  offer  pathways 

To  each  flower-favored  crest, 
Where  city-weary  pilgrims 

May  find  happiness  and  rest. 

The  hills  of  Indiana 

Seem  to  know  and  understand 
They  are  celestial  stairways 

Fashioned  by  a  Master  Hand. 
They  lead  us  up  and  upward 

As  though,  in  a  friendly  part, 
When  we  fare  forth  to  Heaven 

They'll  give  us  a  better  start ! 


WHEN  AIN'T  NOBODY  HOME 

WHEN  ain't  nobody  home !    Gee  whiz, 
That's  'bout  th'  toughest  time  there  is ! 
Come  home  from  school  an'  run  around 
To  where  your  Mother's  always  found 
An'  she  ain't  there!    Th'  kitchen's  dark 
An'  locked  as  fast  as  Noah's  Ark. 
Th'  front  door,  too,  is  bolted  tight 
An',  gee,  it's  purty  nearly  night ! 

You  feel  a  lonesome  feelin'  come, 
Your  heart  beats  sad — just  like  a  drum 
When  some  one's  dead — an'  there's  a  gloom 
Around  your  house  like  it's  a  tomb. 
You  peep  in  through  th'  window,  too, 
An'  all  inside  looks  cold  an*  blue. 
An'  then  there  comes  that  awful  dread — 
Some  one's  been  there  an*  killed  her  dead ! 
16 


WHEN  AIN^T   NOBODY   HOME 

You  think  you  smell  th'  flowers  an'  see 
Those  cards  that  say  "In  Sympathy." 
Then  you  begin  to  think  it's  true 
How  awful  good  she  was  to  you. 
Oh,  if  she'd  just  unlock  that  door 
You'd  never  sass  her  any  more. 
You'd  never  sit  around  an'  pout 
When  ashes  must  be  carried  out. 

Oh,  there's  a  million  things  you'd  do 
If  only  she'd  come  back  to  you. 
You'd  leave  th'  cookies  on  th'  shelf; 
You'd  wash  behind  your  ears  yourself. 
You'd — Who's  that  comin'  up  th'  street? 
Whose  footfall  could  be  half  as  sweet? 
It's  her!    Your  mother,  sweet  an'  good — 
She's  just  been  'round  th'  neighborhood! 


THE  RUBBERNECKS 

WHEN  I  hear  people  fume  an'  fuss 
About  th'  selfishness  in  us, 
It's  then  I  joy  to  p'int  a  case 
Wherein  this  earth's  a  happy  place. 

Two  little  neighbor  boys  I  know, 
One  of  'em's  Crip,  th'  other's  Joe. 
Crip  he's  a  cripple,  as  you'd  guess, 
But  he  don't  peddle  his  distress. 

Joe's  just  a  reg'lar  normal  kid 
Possessed  of  smiles  he  can't  keep  hid. 
An'  somehow,  too,  I've  always  found 
Joe  smiles  th'  most  when  Crip's  around. 

Crip's  little  legs  is  dead  as  ore, 
But  Joe  says  his  is  good  as  four, 
An'  so  this  happy,  care-free  pair 
Goes  gallivantin'  everywhere* 
IS 


THE  RUBBERNECKS 

They've  got  a  old,  discarded  rig 
Some  baby's  had  that  got  too  big. 
They  call  it  "Rubberneck"  'cause  they 
Do  nothin'  else  th'  livelong  day. 

Joe  loads  Crip  up,  then  off  they  go 
An'  stop  at  ever'  picture  show 
To  see  who's  playin'  there  an'  grin 
At  all  th'  folks  a-goin'  in. 

They're  never  home — both  out  an'  gone 
Where  there's  excitement  goin'  on; 
A  fire,  a  fight,  a  dancin'  bear — 
Th'  "Rubbernecks"  is  first  ones  there! 

Why,  I  once  heard  a  sergeant  say 
He'd  bet  that  on  th'  Judgment  Day, 
When  Heaven's  gates  was  opened  wide, 
Them  pals  would  be  th'  first  inside! 


POSTMASTER  TREE 

OF  ALL  our  postmasters,  I  know  you'll  agree, 
The  queerest  of  all  is  old  Postmaster  Tree. 

Way  down  by  the  Crossroads,  in  sun,  rain  and 

hail, 
He  gives  out  and  gathers  the  neighborhood  mail. 

His  sturdy  old  trunk  holds  the  boxes  storm-proof ; 
His  widespreading  boughs   are   the  post-office 
roof. 

He  never  is  prying,  in  fact,  I've  heard  said 
Of  thousands  of  postals,  not  one  has  he  read ! 

Nobody  complains  that — of  all  faults  the  worst — 
He  gets  your  newspaper  and  then  reads  it  first. 

Still,  somehow,  I  feel  the  old  Postmaster  knows 
When  he  gives  us  gladness  or  adds  to  our  woes. 

20 


POSTMASTER  TRES 

I  know  his  leaves  giggle  when  Romance  unlocks 
And  finds  a  sweet  missive  secure  in  his  box. 

Then,  sometimes,  he  sighs  when  to  Love  he  must 

say: 
"I'm  sorry,  my  dear,  but  there's  nothing  to-day." 

To  some  he  brings  treasure,  to  many  their  bills; 
To  all  printed  promise  to  cure  human  ills. 

But,  oh,  the  one  letter  that  fills  him  with  joy, 
Begins  with  "Dear  Mother"  and  ends  with  "Your 
Boy!" 


21 


WHO  SAYS  WHEN  IT'S  MARBLE  TIME? 

Who  says  when  it's  marble  time?  Who  pro- 
claims the  day 

Boys  should  get  their  marbles  out,  then  begin  to 
play? 

Governors  nor  presidents  never  yet  have  said : 
"Time  to  get  your  marbles  out,  Skinny,  Smoke 
and  Red!" 

Robins  sometimes  say  that  Spring  now  is  here 

to  stay, 
Then  a  blizzard  comes  along  and  they  fly  away. 

Who  tells  boys  that  Spring  is  here?     How  are 

they  to  know 
We   may    not   have    weather   yet   twenty-three 

below? 

22 


WHO  SAYS  WHEN  IT*S  MARBLE  TIME? 

But,  just  let  a  sunny  day  linger  hereabout, 
Then,  like  magic,  all  the  guys  get  their  marbles 
out! 

Yes,  it's  here!     It's  marble  time  everywhere  in 

town  ; 
All   you   hear  is:   "Git   on  taws!"   "Hey,   you, 

knuckle  down!" 

Then,  another  mystery  holds  me  in  its  sway — 
Who  finds  last  year's  marble  bag?    Who  put  it 
away? 

Boys  have  fleeting  memories — that  all  mothers 

know — • 
Boys  can't  find  a  hat  or  coat  left  an  hour  ago ! 

But,  just  let  that  mystic  time — marble  time — 

come  'round; 
Somehow,  somewhere,  marble  bags  always  can 

be  found. 


WHO  SAYS  WHEN  IT'S  MARBLE  TIME? 

Who  says  when  it's  marble  time  ?    How  are  boys 

to  know 
We    may   not    have   weather   yet   twenty-three 

below  ? 


24 


CHAWBERRY 

DINK  he's  ist  so  big  an'  jolly ! 

Dink  he  say  to  me :  "By  golly, 

You  need  sumfin'  cool  an'  pleasant — 

How'd  you  like  to  have  a  present 

Of  a  bottle  cold  as  ice  is? 

We  should  worry  what  the  price  is !" 

I  don't  want  to  be  contrary, 

So  I  takes  some  pop — chawberry. 

Dink  ist  laugh  an'  say  it's  funny 
How  I  help  him  spend  his  money. 
He  say,  too,  us  wimmen  make  him 
Spend  till  we  ist  'bout  near  break  him. 
Dink  don't  care  if  he  ain't  wealthy, 
Long  as  little  girls  is  healthy. 
Still,  he  say,  he  can't  help  finkin' 
I'll  ist  die  th'  way  I'm  drinkin'. 
25 


CHAWBERRY 

Dink  say,  too,  I'm  sure  contrary 
Way  I  all  time  take  chawberry! 
He  say,  why,  he'll  buy  my  fill  o* 
Lemon,  grape  or  else  banila, 
If  I'll  drink  it— well,  I  tried  it, 
But  when  it  got  down  inside  it 
Didn't  make  me  feel  so  very 
Awful  good — like  ist  chawberry ! 

Dink  sometimes  he  gits  me  cryin 
When  he  say  he  knows  I'm  dyin' 
With  my  insides  painted  inkish 
From  chawberry  bein'  pinkish. 
Still,  he  say,  if  I'm  a-livin* 
Easter  time  I'll  git  forgiven, 
'Cause  if  I  keep  up  my  habit 
I  can  dye  eggs  for  th'  rabbit ! 


THE  TRADER  IN  DREAMS 

You  MAY  know  my  old  friend,  The  Trader  in 

Dreams ; 
Perhaps  he  has  shown  you  his  wares  and  his 

schemes. 

His  shop  is  a  park  bench,  his  roof-top  a  tree, 
His  stock  an  odd  lot  only  dream-eyes  can  see. 

Just  sit  there  beside  him  on  some  sunny  day, 
He'll  sell  you  a  Joy  that  he  has  on  display. 
He'll  bring  out  a   Hope,   a  sweet  dream  that 

endures, 
And  quickly  convince  you  it  ought  to  be  yours. 

Ask  him  for  a  Glum  and  he'll  proudly  declare 
You'll  find  none  of  that  in  his  stock  anywhere. 
In  fact  he  will  say,  in  a  manner  that  cheers, 
He's  not  had  a  Glum  or  a  Grumble  in  years. 
27 


THE  TRADER  IN  DREAMS 

Ah,  no!    All  his  wares  are  of  smiling  design; 
Just  say:  "Well,  how's  business?"    He'll  answer 

you:  "Fine!" 

And  forthwith  he'll  bring  to  your  fanciful  view 
Some  wonderful  Dreams  that  he  knows  will  come 

true. 

His  wealth,  he  will  tell  you,  is  not  sordid  gold ; 
He  treasures  his  soul,  though  his  body  is  old. 
He  calculates  Youth  as  still  his  till  the  day 
His  shop  must  be  closed  and  his  dreams  fade 
away. 

He  thinks  of  To-morrow  as  his  to  enjoy — 
Though  Time  may  deny  him,  he'll  dream  he's  a 

boy. 

For  he  is  quite  certain  To-morrows  are  sold 
Without  guarantee  to  the  Young  or  the  Old. 

So  there  the  Dream-trader  sits,  waiting  for  you 
To  swap  him  a  Smile  for  a  Day-dream  or  two, 
But  what  I  like  most  is  his  generous  whim — 
He  wants  all  the  world  to  be  partner  with  him  I 

28 


THE  BUTTER-BREAD  BANDIT 

LIKE  some  bold  bandit  prince  he  came, 
His  eyes  aflash,  his  soul  aflame; 
His  raiment  was  of  bandit  style, 
He  wore  a  bandit's  careless  smile. 

His  swagger  stride,  'twas  plain  to  see, 
Was  born  of  practised  tyranny; 
His  armament  was  crude  enough, 
And  yet  it  bore  a  mighty  bluff. 

We  harkened  for  his  cold  commands 
To  each  of  us  to  raise  our  hands ; 
Instead  he  passed — as  grim  as  gore — 
Then  vanished  through  the  kitchen  door. 

We  listened — listened  till  we  heard 
His  mother  get  the  fatal  word : 
"You'd  better  git  some  butter-bread 
Or  peril  lies  upon  your  head !" 
29 


THE  BUTTER-BREAD  BANDIT 

His  mother  called  for  help — but,  no! 
Not  one  of  us  would  dare  to  go ! 
"You'd  better  feed  the  knave,"  we  said. 
"That  bandit  wants  some  butter-bread !" 

The  bandit  laughed  in  fiendish  glee, 
He'd  won  his  battle  bloodlessly  1 
Then  soon  we  saw  him  marching  by, 
A  look  of  triumph  in  his  eye. 

Fast  in  his  clutches  he  displayed 
The  profits  of  his  daring  raid. 
Down  on  the  steps  he  boldly  sat, 
A  soul  content  and  waxing  fat. 

How  eagerly  he  downed  each  crumb ; 
He  smacked  his  lips,  he  licked  his  thumb. 
Then  came  a  yawn — long,  sweet  and  deep — • 
Our  bold,  bad  bandit  was  asleep ! 


"IS  'AT  SO?" 

FULL  many  a  fight  has  gone  unfought, 
And  many  a  coffin's  yet  unbought 
Because  mere  words  sufficed  to  do 
What  bullets  did  at  Waterloo. 
Take  Youth — how  often  Youth  escapes 
The  dire  effect  of  many  scrapes 
By  using  words  in  bandied  flow 
To  halt  a  hard,  impending  blow : 
"Is  'at  so?" 

"Yes,  'at'sso!" 

"Oh,  is 'at  so?" 

With  faces  drawn  in  boyish  wrath 
Youth  waits  for  Youth  to  cross  its  path. 
Fists  grip  for  fight,  but  fists  don't  fly 
Till  one  has  met  the  other's  eye. 
31 


"IS  'AT  SO?" 

And  so  it  is  that  words  must  do 
The  fighting  neither's  wanting  to. 
They  stand  at  guard,  with  toe  to  toe, 
But  here's  as  far  as  they  will  go : 
"Is  'at  so?" 

"Yes,  'at's  so!" 

"Oh,  is  'at  so?" 

How  peaceful  this  old  world  would  be 
If  men  showed  such  diplomacy ! 
Full  many  a  tear  would  go  unshed 
If  blows  were  made  of  words  instead 
Of  bullets,  guns  and  tools  of  war — 
Tools  humankind  should  e'er  abhor! 
Far  better  it  would  be  to  show 
That  words  are  all  of  war  we  know : 
"Is  'at  so?" 

"Yes,  'at's  so!" 

"Oh,  is  'at  so?" 


32 


RIDIN'  AROUND 

THEY'S  some  kids  got  their  auto-beels, 
An'  some  has  skates  an'  some  has  wheels, 
But  they  ain't  got  no  old  horse,  Bill, 
An'  what's  still  more — they  never  will! 

Ain't  none  o'  them  got  Dads  'at  goes 
An'  transfers  things  fer  folks  he  knows; 
Ain't  none  o'  them  'at  gits  to  see 
Th'  whole  wide  town  th'  same  as  me. 

I  bet  their  Dads  don't  never  say: 
"Well,  Bud,  you  gonna  'long  to-day?" 
An'  then  they  don't  git  up  beside 
Their  Dad  an'  ist  sit  there  an'  ride! 

I  do — you  betcha ! — ever'  day ! 
An'  it's  more  fun  than  reg'lar  play 
'Cause  I  see  things  you  never  see 
'Less  you're  along  with  Dad  an'  me. 

33 


RIDIN'  AROUND 

We  drive  down  alleys  to  th'  stores 
Where  Dad  loads  boxes  from  their  doors, 
An'  one  day  was  a  man  'at  hit 
His  thumb  fer  nails — an'  cussed  at  it! 

An'  we  go  down  among  th'  trains 
An'  git  in  box  cars  when  it  rains ; 
Oh,  yes,  an*  once  was  man  give  me 
His  pie  because  it  don't  agree. 

An'  sometimes  mans  they  tease  me  so 
I  want  to  fight — but  let  'em  go. 
An'  sometimes,  too,  when  I  git  mad 
They  pay  me  so's  to  git  me  glad. 

Night  comes  along  an'  Dad  an'  me 
Go  home  ist  tired  as  we  can  be, 
Then  Mother  says  to  us :  "Gee  whiz, 
You're  hardest  workin'  boys  they  is  1" 


34 


THE  RUNAWAY  SHOES 

FOUR  big  shoes  came  down  the  street, 

Clatter!    Clatter  1    Clatter! 
Inside  the  shoes  were  four  small  feet, 

Patter!    Patter!    Patter! 
And  then  we  heard  the  children  say 
They'd  had  an  awful  runaway — 
Oh,  they  had  had  a  merry  day ! 
Chatter!    Chatter  1    Chatter! 

It  all  began  when  Mother  said 

Sadly!    Sadly!    Sadly! 
She'd  rather  see  her  children  dead, 

Gladly!    Gladly!    Gladly! 
Than  have  them  go  some  other  way 
Than  in  their  Dad's  steps — day  by  day- 
'T would  make  her  feel  a  deep  dismay- 
Badly!    Badly!    Badly! 
35 


THE  RUNAWAY  SHOES 

The  children  thought,  to  fill  Dad's  shoes 

Fully!    Fully!    Fully! 
They'd  find  two  pairs  and  take  a  cruise — 

Bully!    Bully!    Bully! 
But  when  they  got  inside  to  go 
They  found  them  filled  with  tickle-toe — 
They  had  his  hunting  shoes,  you  know ; 

Woolly!    Woolly!    Woolly! 

The  children  laughed  in  keen  delight, 

Merry !    Merry !    Merry ! 
Although  the  shoes  had  caused  a  fright — 

Scary!  Scary!    Scary! 
At  first  the  shoes  ran  off,  they  say, 
But  all  got  home  at  close  of  day — 
Glad  Daddy  trained  his  shoes  that  way; 

Very!    Very!    Very! 


PUNKINHEADS 

I  BETCHA  I'm  got  Uncles  home 

'At's  badder  ones  'an  yours, 
My  Muvver  say  she  ist  don't  know 

How  my  poor  soul  endures. 
Uspecially  on  Hallowe'ens 

I  stand  an'  hold  my  breath, 
'Cause  nen  my  Uncles  allus  come 

An'  skeer  me  half  to  death. 
But  what  I  think  most  worst  of  all 

An'  makes  me  mad  all  through 
Is  when  they  make  a  punkinhead, 

Nen  says  it  looks  like  you. 

They  stand  me  up  right  by  its  side, 
Nen  says :    "Now  ain't  'at  rich  ?- 

We've  got  two  punkinfaces  here 
An'  can't  tell  which  is  which !" 
37 


PUNKINHEADS 

Oh,  they  ist  laugh  an'  holler,  too, 

An*  say  they'll  try  an'  see 
If  they  can  cut  another  face 

'At  don't  resemble  me. 
But  when  they  cut  another  one 

My  Muvver's  bruvver  Jim 
He  say:    "Now  ain't  it  ist  too  bad? — 

This  here  one  flatters  him!" 

Nen  Uncle  Curt  he  scratch  his  head 
An*  say  to  us  he  guessed 

Th'  way  to  tell  a  punkinhead 
Was  make  a  bumpin'  test. 

Next  thing  he  bumps  my  head  an*  nen 
He  bumps  th'  punkin's,  too, 

An'  say:    "Well,  ain't  'at  terrible  7-- 
Th' punkinhead  is  you !" 

But  'fore  I  git  a  chanst  to  cry 
They  hug  me  in  between 

An'  make  me  laugh  an'  holler  till 
I'm  glad  it's  Hallowe'en! 


THE  BOOKWORM 

DEAR  little  baby  bookworm,  deep  in  your  storied 

thrill; 
How  is  my  old  friend  Jack  to-day,  and  did  he 

marry  Jill? 
Come  now,  let's  have  the  gossip;  give  me  some 

news  that  cheers, 
Tell  me  of  dear  old  friends  of  mine  I  haven't 

seen  for  years. 

Tell  me  of  Tom,  the  Piper's  Son — the  one  who 

stole  the  pig — 
You  say  he's  just  the  same  to-day  and  never  did 

grow  big? 
And — yes,  of  course — Red  Riding  Hood!    Has 

she  a  red  hood  still  ? 
Did  Peter,  Peter,  Pumpkin  Eater  ever  get  his  fill  ? 


THE  BOOKWORM 

And  then — let's  see — the  two  old  Spratts  who 

never  quarreled  at  meat — 
I  wonder  if,  as  things  now  are,  they  get  enough 

to  eat? 
Has  Mother  Hubbard's  poor  old  dog  yet  found 

a  friendly  bone? 
Is  Little  Jack  Homer  still  in  the  corner  eating 

his  pie  alone? 

There's  Old  King  Cole  and — yes,  oh  yes! — 

The  Woman  Who  Lived  in  a  Shoe: 
Her  children  now  must  be  grown  up  and  have  big 

families,  too! 
Tell  me  of  all  our  good  old  friends — I'll  thank 

you  if  you  will — 
I'm  in  my  second  childhood  now  and  need  a 

second  thrill! 


40 


AT  GRANNY'S  HOUSE 

AT  GRANNY'S  house  things  somehow  seem 
Like  they  ain't  real — all  just  a  dream 
Of  days  when  Granny  used  to  be 
'Bout  big  as  half  as  big  as  me. 

We  like  to  sit  in  Granny's  door 
An'  hear  what  she  calls  "days  of  yore," 
Which  Granny  says  was  'way  back  there 
When  sense  was  sense  an'  men  was  square. 

Why,  Granny  says,  one  man  back  then, 
If  he  was  here,  would  be  worth  ten. 
An'  she  says  wimmen,  too,  could  work 
As  hard  as  some  now  sit  an'  shirk. 

She  says  to-day  things  don't  endure; 
Why,  just  look  at  th'  furniture ! 
You  ain't  got  rockers  more'n  a  week 
Till  they  break  down  er  start  to  squeak. 
41 


AT  GRANNY'S  HOUSE 

Them  days  when  folks  got  wed  it  stuck—* 
Judge  didn't  care  who  had  bad  luck. 
An'  Granny  says  th'  wimmens  then 
Got  out  o'  bed  'fore  half  pas'  ten. 

Oh,  Granny's  mad  th'  way  things  is — 
Girls  ought  to  git  th'  rheumatiz ! 
An'  she  can't  stand  th'  way  that  they 
Wear  Sunday  dresses  every  day ! 

'An'  sausage  now  is  all  a  sin 

Th'  way  it's  got  th'  cornmeal  in ; 

An*  folks  back  then  cooked  fer  theirselves 

An*  don't  git  meals  from  grocery  shelves. 

Oh  gee,  but  Granny's  mad  th'  way 
This  world's  turned  out  to  be  to-day. 
Still,  what  I  can't  git  through  my  head 
Is  why  such  good  folks  all  is  dead ! 


THE  STREET  SCALE 

I  AM  The  Street  Scale — free  to  all! — 
The  thin,  the  thick,  the  great,  the  small ; 
The  meek,  the  bold,  the  grave,  the  gay — 
I  tell  them  all  how  much  they  weigh. 

Yet,  when  I  tell  them,  it's  a  fright 

The  way  they  bawl :  "Them  scales  ain't  right !" 

I'm  either  "over"  or  "below" — 

But  always  wrong  they  all  well  know. 

Miss  Thin  comes  up  and  waits  to  be 
A  confidante,  alone  with  me. 
But  I  can't  cheat — my  hand  goes  'round 
And,  heaven's  sake! — she's  lost  a  pound! 

Then  Mrs.  Thick  comes  slyly  up. 
Takes  off  her  furs  and  powders  up. 
She  tries  me  out — my  hand  goes  'round 
And,  heaven's  sake! — she's  gained  a  pound  1 

43 


THE  STREET  SCALE 

Miss  Thin  declares  it  isn't  true 
That  starches  put  a  pound  on  you ; 
Says  Mrs.  Thick,  the  pyramid: 
"That's  what  that  blamed  potato  did!" 

Yet,  to  their  friends,  I  hear  them  say : 
"Oh,  I  don't  care  how  much  I  weigh. 
It  makes  me  tired  how  some  folks  stew 
About  their  weight  the  way  they  do." 

No,  they  don't  care — but  off  they'll  trot 
And  try  a  penny-in-the-slot ; 
They  hope,  somehow,  the  pay  machine 
Will  lean  the  fat  or  fat  the  lean ! 


44 


THE  CREEK  THAT  RUNS  THROUGH 
TOWN 

OF  ALL  the  things  that  Nature  does, 

In  rambling  up  and  down, 
The  oddest  trait  of  all,  I  think, 

Is  bringing  creeks  to  town. 
A  creek  is  of  the  country  born, 

By  birthright  fair  and  free, 
And  why  it  wants  to  come  to  town 

Has  always  puzzled  me. 

But  oftentimes  we  see  one  flow, 

In  dark  and  sullen  tide, 
Where  beauty  long  has  been  forgot 

And  ugly  things  abide; 
Where  discards  of  the  store  and  shop, 

Of  house  and  crowded  inn, 
Make  what  was  once  a  pebbled  way 

A  trough  of  battered  tin. 
45 


THE   CREEK    THAT   RUNS    THROUGH    TOWN 

Here  lies  a  useless,  broken  stove; 

There  drifts  a  baby's  shoe; 
Beneath  the  bridge  a  washboard's  wreck, 

A  cast-off  tub  or  two. 
The  water  lolls  by  empty  cans, 

Plays  tag  along  the  shore 
With  broken  bottles,  broken  toys, 

And  derelicts  galore. 

I  sometimes  think  a  city  creek 

Of  country  birth  pretends 
To  do  these  ugly,  common  things 

For  other  happy  ends. 
In  fact  I  think  they  come  to  town 

In  sweet  and  friendly  quest 
For  those  of  us  who  might  be  lured 

To  where  they're  loveliest! 


46 


THE  BARNYARD  BAND 

I'M  GOT  a  Barnyard  Band  'at  plays 

As  good  as  reg'lar  bands, 
An'  it  can  play  all  differnt  ways 

'Thout  neither  horns  ner  hands. 

It's  out  in  Gramma's  chicken  yard, 
You  know  where  Gramma's  is; 

'At's  where  we  go  when  Pa's  worked  hard 
Or  got  his  rheumatiz. 

Well,  Gramma  she's  got  chickens  there, 

An'  geese  an'  guinea  hens, 
An'  ducks  an*  turkeys  ever'  where, 

An'  pigs  inside  th'  pens. 

An'  when  ain't  nothin'  else  to  do, 
Like  eat  an'  things  like  that, 

Nen's  when  I  like  to  go  down  to 
Where  Gramma's  poultry's  at 
47 


THE   BARNYARD  BAND 

I  always  take  some  jam  an'  bread 

Like  it's  all  ist  fer  me, 
Nen  if  them  poult rys  ain't  been  fed — 

Well,  you  ist  ought  to  see! 

'At's  when  th'  Band  begins  to  play, 
An'  when  I  throw  'em  crumbs, 

They  play  their  horns  ist  ever'  way — 
Woodpecker  he's  th'  drums! 

Pigs  they're  th'  big  bass  horn,  you  bet, 
An'  roosters,  when  they  crow 

Are  ever'  one  a  clarinet, 
Th'  guineas — piccolo. 

An'  Gramma  says  she  knows  th'  tune 
My  Band  ist  all  time  play; 

She  says  'at  morning,  night  an'  noon 
It's  always  "Perfect  Day!" 


CLOUD-CHILDREN 

I  THINK  of  clouds  as  children  of  the  sky ; 
They  have  their  moods  as  children  do — they  cry, 
They  laugh,  they  romp,  they  roll  and  toss  about — 
One  moment  beautiful,  then  changing,  sulk  and 
pout. 

Sometimes,  at  morning,  they  come  trooping  in 
Like  children  do — to  beg  that  play  begin ! 
Their  fleecy  garments,  worn  in  care-free  way, 
Show  well  their  mood  to  have  a  holiday. 

They  dance  along  the  morning's  open  sky, 
Play  hide-and-seek  with  comrades  passing  by ; 
The  friendly  sun  comes  up  to  find  them  there, 
And,  beaming,  makes  their  playground  doubly 
fair. 

49 


CLOUD-CHILDREN 

Yes,  Clouds  have  moods  as  children  do — from  joy 
They  fly  in  reckless  tantrum  and  destroy 
Things  that  to  them  no  simple  harm  has  done — 
The  widow's  house,  or  her  last  hope — her  son! 

I  like  the  dreamy  sunset  clouds  the  best, 
When  they,  day-weary,  anchor  in  the  west. 
I  think  of  them  as  something  soft  and  warm, 
Unskilled  in  all  the  banditry  of  storm. 

And  then,  sometimes,  the  white  clouds  are  a  nook 
The  angels  slip  down  into,  just  to  look 
Down  in  our  hearts  at  closer  range — a  quest 
To  see  which  child  of  us  is  happiest! 


NEIGHBORS 

A  RICKETY  Rocking-chair  swayed  to  and  fro 

In  front  of  a  Second-hand  Store; 
You  could  tell  it  was  sad,  for  it  wearily  sighed : 

"This  I  never  have  done  before. 
I  once  was  a  dweller  in  Well-to-do  Street, 

But  when  I  grew  wabbly  and  old 
They  put  me  out  back  of  the  kitchen  and  then — 

Ah,  then  I  was  bartered  and  sold." 

"I  thought  I  knew  you/*  the  Baby's  Chair  said. 

"You  once  were  a  neighbor  of  mine. 
My  babies  grew  up  and — well,  you  understand — 

What  else  could  I  do  but  resign  ?" 
The  Kitchen  Stove  laughed  aa  old  Pitcher  and 
Bowl 

Exclaimed:  "We're  the  victims  of  Fate — 
We,  too,  were  discarded  by  neighbors  of  yours; 

Antiques  that  are  called  out  of  date !" 

SI 


NEIGHBORS 

An    old-fashioned    Bedstead,    with    Bureau    to 
match, 

Near  fractured  its  last  able  slat 
In  telling  how  all  their  relations  had  gone 

To  live  in  a  Pullmanized  flat. 
The  discards  were  cheering  each  other  with  jest 

When,  like  a  joy-beam  from  the  sky, 
A  happy  old  darky  came  shambling  along 

To  barter  a  while  and  to  buy. 

"Ah's  done'n  got  married  ag'in,"  he  explained. 

"Ah  needs  all  dis  stuff  heah  yo'  got." 
And  so,  in  a  jiffy,  the  bargain  was  made — 

The  discards  were  bought  in  a  lot. 
"It's  wonderful  luck!"  old  Rocking-chair  cried. 

"It's  wonderful  luck  we  are  in ; 
We  ought  to  be  happy  the  rest  of  our  days — 

We're   now  more   than   neighbors  —  we're 
kin!" 


TANTALIZIN'  DAYS 

HEAH  come  dem  Tantalizin'  Days, 
Wif  half-time  sun  an'  half-time  haze, 
De  kind  dat  wraps  yo'  in  a  maze 

Ob  Springtime  dreams. 
Yo'  sit  outside  an'  soak  up  sun 
An'  tell  yo'se'f  ole  Wintah's  done — 
Dog-gone!    Yo'  fool  thoughts  even  run 

To  catfish  streams. 

Yo'  go  to  bed  at  night  an'  pray 

De  sun  to-mor'  shine  lak  to-day, 

But  w'en  yo'  wake — out  dah  dey  lay — 

Ole  snow  an'  sleet! 
Folks,  'tain'  no  use  to  growl  an'  pout, 
De  good  Lawd  knows  whut  He's  about — 
Des  grab  whut  sunshine  He  gibs  out 

An'  call  it  sweet ! 
53 


THE  PATIENT  FRIEND 

WE  SPEAK  of  patience  as  a  worthy  trait, 
So  few  of  us  have  calm  to  watch  and  wait; 
Instead  with  restless  eye  we  scan  the  street 
For  some  belated  friend  we'd  come  to  meet. 

We  wander  up  and  down,  declaring  then 
That  never  would  we  watch  and  wait  again. 
Impatience  I    How  it  serves  unhappy  ends 
To  make  tornado  centers  of  our  friends ! 

I  feel  a  pity  for  myself  to  see 
A  dog  out  watching,  waiting — patiently! 
Sweet  hope,  and  not  rebuke,  is  in  his  eye 
As  closely  he  reviews  each  passer-by. 

The  hours  that  pass  are  but  a  simple  crumb 
Compared  with  that  sweet  morsel  yet  to  come ; 
That  stroke  of  head,  that  moment  he'll  extend 
His  paw  to  welcome  you — his  dearest  friend ! 

54 


THE  PATIENT  FRIEND 

That  wagging  tail — increasing  in  its  beat 
As  feet  familiar  echo  to  him  from  the  street; 
Those  beaming  eyes  that,  somehow,  seem  to  say 
The  wait  was  long — but  one  smile  is  his  pay ! 

And  how  the  ardor  of  the  greeting  grows 

As  through   the  door,   tip-stairs  and   downt  he 

goes, 

That  shaggy  head,  caressing  hand  and  knee 
To  show  how  glad  a  happy  dog  can  be. 

We  speak  of  patience  as  a  worthy  trait, 
So  few  of  us  have  calm  to  watch  and  wait, 
But  I  believe  that  on  The  Other  Shore 
Our  dogs  will  be  there — watching  at  the  door! 


55 


HAVE  YOU  BEEN  TO  SEE  "OCTOBER"? 

Have  you  been  to  see  "October"  ? 

Autumn's  hue-gigantic  show, 
With  its  carnival  of  color 

And  its  galaxy  of  glow? 
Not  a  stage  in  all  creation 

Has  an  arch  with  nobler  spans; 
Where  is  there  a  sweeter  chorus? 

Where  such  cute  comedians? 

You  don't  have  to  wait  for  ushers 

To  escort  you  down  the  aisle; 
There's  no  war  tax  or  admission — 

All  you  have  to  do  is  smile ! 
And  the  orchestra  is  waiting 

For  the  audience  to  come; 
In  the  woods  the  nuts  are  falling 

Till  they  rattle  like  a  drum. 

56 


HAVE  YOU  BEEN  TO  SEE  "OCTOBER"  ? 

Corn  shocks  make  the  stately  chorus, 

And  they  sing  with  all  their  might 
When  the  wind  goes  whistling  through  them 

Like  a  ballet  dancer's  flight. 
As  comedians  the  pumpkins 

Are  without  a  peer,  you'll  say, 
For  they  loll  there,  fat  and  giggly, 

Like  a  clown  on  circus  day. 

It's  a  great  show,  is  "October," 

One  all  humankind  should  see; 
So,  come  on!    Let's  seek  the  country! 

Be  a  gallery  god  with  me! 
On  a  friendly  fence  or  gate  post 

We  will  revel  in  its  glow, 
And  be  glad  God  made  "October" 

Such  a  joy-abundant  show! 


57 


THE  WAYFARER'S  VALENTINE 

THE  WAYFARER  longed  for  an  old  valentine, 
One  blessed  with  a  sentiment  memory-divine. 
But  where  would  he  find  it?    Somewhere  there 

must  be 
A  friend  with  a  thought  for  such  roamers  as  he. 

He  journeyed  along  and  soon  came  to  a  stop 
In  front  of  the  door  of  a  florist's  gay  shop. 
He  looked  in  the  window,  the  wayfarer's  shrine, 
there  he  beheld  it  —  his  dream  valentine! 


A  vase  filled  with  flowers  of  varying  hue 
Made  Memory  pass  in  a  fragrant  review. 
He  saw  in  the  roses  and  violets  gay 
A  girl  of  the  past  —  of  St.  Valentine's  Day! 

58 


THE  WAYFARER'S  VALENTINE 

It  brought  him  a  vision  of  Youth's  golden  hours 
When  he   had   made   Love  tell   its  story  with 

flowers ; 

When  some  simple  posy  had  gone  on  its  way 
To  tell  her  the  things  that  his  tongue  couldn't  say. 

The  Wayfarer  wondered  just  where  she  had  gone, 
The  years  had  been  many  since  Love's  happy 

dawn. 

So  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  sauntered  away, 
He  would  send  her  a  rose-thought  on  Valentine's 

Day! 


THE  DESERTED  INN 

To  ME  a  graveyard  seems  a  quiet  Inn, 

If  name  it  bore  'twould  be  "The  Travelers' 
Rest"; 

Each  stone  I  liken  to  the  register, 

Each  grave  the  room  of  some  abiding  guest. 

To-day,  where  once  an  Inn  of  many  beds 

Gave  sweet  repose  to  all  who  entered  there, 

I  found  the  register — but  broken  stones 

In  careless  piles — the  rooms  deserted,  bare! 

I  walked  among  the  stones  and  read  the  names, 
All  once  familiar  in  the  ways  of  life; 

The  Tapster,  Tinker,  Tanner,  Poet,  Judge — 
Each  with  his  suite  for  progeny  and  wife. 
60 


THE  DESERTED  INN 

But  whither  have  these  peaceful  dwellers  gone? 

The  registers  no  longer  mark  their  rooms, 
For  here  the  stones,  in  ugly,  shattered  mass, 

Lie   far   removed   from  once  tear-hallowed 
tombs. 

Here    Commerce,    like    some    bold,    intruding 

knave, 
Has   wrecked  the  Inn  and  left  the  record 

bare ; 

Its  grassy  carpets,  once  the  keeper's  pride, 
Give  heedless  feet  a  daily  thoroughfare. 

Carved  on  the  stones  are  sentiments  of  love, 

One — "Gone,  but  not  forgotten" — seemed  to 
be 

A  cry  as  from  some  restless  spirit  host 
To  hold  their  Inn  in  sweeter  sanctity. 

And  so  I  wonder  what  their  fate  will  be 

When  this  old  world  from  its  long  labor 

rests  ; 
How,   when   the   hour  of   life's   Glad   Morning 

comes, 

Shall  the  Archangel  find  his  sleeping  guests  ? 
61 


IN  MEMORY'S  GARDEN 

WHEN  Mother  walks  among  the  trees 
And  in  her  garden,  blossom-fair, 

I  fancy,  somehow,  that  she  sees 

More  than  mere  flowers  blooming  there. 

Her  dear  old  eyes  take  on  a  glow, 

And  on  her  face  a  smile-beam  plays 

As  through  her  heart  there  seems  to  flow 
Fond  memories  of  other  days. 

The  Johnny-jump-ups  are  to  her 

Old  friends  she  knew  in  girlhood  years, 
As  half-forgotten  things  recur 

In  blended  bursts  of  smiles  and  tears. 

Each  Johnny's  face,  somehow,  recalls 
Another  face  she  used  to  know 

In  playground  haunts,  in  schoolroom  halls, 

Or  where  the  daisies  used  to  grow. 

62 


IN  MEMORY  S  GARDEN 

The  tulips  all  are  little  tots 

Parading  'round  in  Sunday  dress; 
Far  prouder  than  forget-me-nots, 

Which  boast  unrivaled  loveliness. 

The  humble  dandelion,  too, 

Is  some  towheaded  neighbor  boy; 
The  violets  sweet  girls  in  blue 

Who  made  her  play-days  days  of  joy. 

She  touches  each  fair  flower  there, 
Enshrines  it  as  a  holy  thing; 

She  feels  the  warm  breeze  in  her  hair 
And  thanks  God  for  another  Spring! 


LITTLE  GRAY  CHURCH  IN  THE  CIRCLE 
An  Easter  Thought  of  Christ  Church 

FLANKED  by  the  walls  that  men  have  made 
To  meet  the  needs  of  men  and  trade, 
You  seem,  in  calm,  sweet  voice,  to  say : 
"Come  unto  me !    Come,  rest  and  pray !" 

Little  Gray  Church  in  the  Circle. 
For  saint  and  sinner,  churl  and  cad ; 
For  young  and  old,  the  gay,  the  sad, 
Your  chiming  bells,  by  day,  by  night, 
Ring  out  the  prayer,  "Lead,  Kindly  Light!" 

Little  Gray  Church  in  the  Circle. 

Though  some  may  think  all  creeds  are  vain, 
Doubt  even  God  when  racked  with  pain; 
Your  friendly  portals  breathe  of  peace 
That  makes  all  doubting  quickly  cease — 
Little  Gray  Church  in  the  Circle. 
64 


LITTLE  GRAY  CHURCH  IN  THE  CIRCLE 

Your  slender  spire  points  to  the  sky 
And  thrills  the  vagrant  passer-by. 
It  makes  him  feel  a  presence  sweet 
To  cross  your  shadow  in  the  street — 
Little  Gray  Church  in  the  Circle. 

And  now,  when  dawns  the  Eastertide, 
Somehow  you  seem  more  glorified! 
The  green  grass  growing  at  your  door 
Proclaims  the  Springtime  here  once  more — 

Little  Gray  Church  in  the  Circle. 
The  vines  that  trail  your  walls — reborn — 
Are  symbols  of  the  Easter  morn ; 
For  He  who  slept  awakened,  too, 
That  old  things  might  be  changed  to  new — 

Little  Gray  Church  in  the  Circle. 


THE  FUNNY  Cakes  the  Baker  Makes 
Are  queer  as  they  can  be; 

•There's  Circus  Days  an'  Hallowe'ens 
An'  Christmases  all  three! 

There's  cakes  for  every  holiday, 

The  Easter  rabbit's  one; 
A  hatchet,  too,  has  been  all  baked 

For  old  George  Washington. 

The  Baker  he  makes  A  B  Cs, 
Which  I  don't  like  so  well, 

'Cause  grown-up  peoples  give  you  words 
They  don't  know  how  to  spell. 

My  fav'rite  cakes  is  animals, 

Like  elephants  an'  bears, 
Or  cows  an'  sheeps  an'  guinea  pigs 

You  see  at  county  fairs. 
66 


THE  FUNNY  CAKES  THE  BAKER  MAKES 

'Course  animals  is  funniest 

Of  all  the  cakes  'at's  made; 

You  think  it's  truly  Circus  Day 
When  they  go  on  parade. 

Sometimes  I  play  it's  raining,  too, 
An'  all  the  world  is  dark; 

Nen  put  'em  in  our  chiffonier 
Like  it  was  Noah's  Ark. 

The  Funny  Cakes  the  Baker  Makes 

Git  me  to  laughing  so 
My  Mother  says  some  day  I'll  bu'st 

An'  then  turn  into  dough. 

I  wouldn't  mind  if  I  could  be 
A  Baker's  Cake — an'  yet 

Some  bad  kid  might  git  hold  o'  me, 
Nen — gosh! — I  might  git  e't! 


EMPTY  JUG 

EVER  pack  water  fer  thrashermen  ?     Say, 
Don't  pick  that  job  fer  no  glad  holiday! 
Thrashers  could  drink  a  whole  ocean,  I  bet, 
Then  swear  their  whistles  ain't  even  been  wet. 

You  give  a  thrasher  a  full  jug,  an'  then 
All  there's  to  do  is  go  fill  it  again. 
Once  he  can  pucker  his  lips  at  th'  hole, 
He'll  fill  his  pockets,  his  body  an'  soul. 

Furder  you  git  from  th'  well's  coolin'  brink 
Seems  like  th'  deeper  them  thrashermen  drink. 
Then  they  start  hollerin';  "Boy!    Water  boy! 
Where  you  git  water  at  ?    West  Illinoy  ?" 

Start  in  at  daylight  an'  you  never  quit 
Till  it's  clean  dinner-time — then  as  you  sit 
Eatin'  an'  weary  th'  thrashermen  say: 
"Where  has  that  water  boy  been  at  all  day  ?" 

68 


EMPTY  JUG 

Seems  like  th'  afternoon  never  will  end, 
Back  gits  so  tired  that  it  hardly  won't  bend, 
Still  they  keep  hollerin':  "Jumpin*  gee  whiz! 
Where  you  suppose  old  man  Empty  Jug  is  ?" 

Say,  I'll  bet  Noah,  with  all  of  his  flood, 
Never  could  keep  his  feet  out  o'  th'  mud 
If  he  was  a  water  boy,  try  in'  in  vain 
To  water  a  thrasher  with  forty  days'  rain! 


69 


EVE  ETERNAL: 

SWEET  eve  eternal !    Wondrous  night  I 
Aglow  with  songs  and  candle-light; 
Aglow  with  dreams  and  mystic  spells 
Of  Santa  Claus  and  Christinas  bells! 

Oh,  let  my  dreams  of  Youth  run  free ! 
Glad  Christmas  Eves,  come  back  to  me! 
Change  me  to  child !    Let  me  once  more 
Go  nightie-clad  to  Dreamland's  door. 

It  can  not  be  I    So,  Yule-beguiled, 
I'll  wish  joy  to  some  other  child. 
My  thoughts  will  follow  up  the  stairs, 
Some  baby,  to  its  Christmas  prayers. 

Its  prayers  will  be  for  everything — 
Far  more  than  Santa  Claus  could  bring; 
But  what  are  prayers  if  they,  must  be 
Of  limit  in  gratuity? 
TO 


EVE  ETERNAE 

Make  Santa's  Christmas  pack  so  great 
He'll  fairly  groan  beneath  the  weight. 
'Twill  do  no  harm — so  have  no  fear — 
He  only  works  one  night  a  year! 

May  every  prayer  that's  breathed  to-night 
Be  answered  ere  the  dawn  of  light. 
May  every  heart,  however  sad, 
Find  stockings  filled  with  Loads  of  Glad! 


THE  FREE  SHOW 

THEY  is  folks  that  git  enjoyment 

Out  of  underground  employment, 
An'  they's  some  that  like  explorin'  in  th'  sky, 

But  th'  fellers,  I'm  confessin', 

I  can't  measure  as  a  blessin' 
Is    th'    window    demonstrators    for    th'     folks 
a-passin'  by. 

Yes,  I  know  I  like  to  see  'em, 
But  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  'em, 
Showin'  how  to  sew  on  buttons,  'thout  needle  or 

a  thread. 

They  just  stand  there,  meek  as  Moses, 
Coin'  through  their  silent  poses 
With  some  new  electric  door-knob  or  tonic  for 
your  head. 


THE  FREE  SHOW 

Folks,  somehow,  I  keep  on  wishin', 
For  th'  old  free  exhibition 
Like  they  used  to  have  on  Saturdays  around  th' 

public  square. 

What  I  want's  th'  old  Professor, 
Diamond-decked  an'  dandy  dresser, 
With  his  liniment  an'  music  an'  dancin',  prancin' 
pair. 

I  can  smell  his  torch  a-burnin', 
I  can  see  th'  crowd  a-churnin', 
While  he  raked  in  easy  dollars — a  basketful  or 

more! 

I  can  hear  th'  banjoes  ringin', 
I  can  hear  his  minstrels  singin' 
'Bout  Nelly  Gray  departin'  from  th'  old  Kentucky 
shore. 

Yes,  I  know  th'  demonstrator 
Gives  a  show  that's  up-to-dater, 
But  he  sends  no  music  waftin'  across  th'  evenin' 
air. 


73 


THE  FREE  SHOW 


What  I  want's  th'  old  Professor, 
Diamond-decked  and  dandy  dresser, 
With  his  liniment  an'  music  an'  dancin',  prancin' 
pair. 


74 


IF  EVERYTHING  WENT  JUST  SO 

IF  EVERYTHING  went  just  so !    Ah,  me, 
What  a  wonder-world  this  world  would  be; 
Nothing  to  do  but  grin  and  agree — 

If  everything  went  just  so. 
No  use  for  lawyers  or  scrolls  of  law, 
No  court-house  stairway  to  climb  in  awe; 
No  one  would  care  what  we  heard  or  saw — 

If  everything  went  just  so. 

Taxes  would  never  be  hard  to  pay, 
First-of-the-month  would  be  just  a  day; 
Debts  would  be  luxuries  laughed  away — 

If  everything  went  just  so. 
Chickens  would  never  scratch  neighbors'  yards, 
Children  of  neighbors  would  all  be  pards ; 
No  one  would  lose  at  Life's  game  of  cards — 

If  everything  went  just  so. 
75 


IF  EVERYTHING  WENT   JUST  SO 

Have  family  dinners  and  all  be  there, 
Each  bring  a  smile  and  have  smiles  to  spare; 
Start  with  a  song  and  close  with  a  prayer — 

If  everything  went  just  so. 
Clothes-lines  would  never  have  falling  props, 
Windows  would  never  be  smashed  by  tops; 
Nobody  ever  would  call  the  cops — 

If  everything  went  just  so. 

Doctors  and  nurses  we  would'  not  need, 
"Say  it  with  flowers"  would  be  our  creed; 
We'd  step  on  the  gas  and  all  show  speed — 

If  everything  went  just  so. 
Never  a  worry  and  never  a  sob, 
Never  an  argument,  never  a  mob; 
But,  oh,  the  folks  who'd  be  out  of  a  job — 

If  everything  went  just  so! 


76 


A  WAYSIDE  WORLD 

I  CAME  upon  a  little  world  to-day, 
A  world  wherein  true  happiness  held  sway; 
Where  Wind  and  Sun  and  Morning  Dew,  a-drip, 
Bound  all  about  in  Summer  comradeship. 

A  byroad  to  some  Lower  Forty  led 
Far  from  the  pike,  where  mighty  motors  sped; 
No  sound  came  forth  to  break  the  morning's  still, 
Save  one  glad  lark,  rehearsing  on  a  hill. 

Oh,  what  a  world  it  was,  for  here  I  saw 
No  hint  of  hate,  no  monitor  of  law  ; 
No  preacher-voice  was  crying  out:  "Repent I" 
It  was  a  world  rose-fragrant  with  content. 

An  old  rail  fence,  half  sunlit,  half  in  shade, 
Was    mother-knee     'round    which    wild    roses 

played. 

Ambitious  vines,  like  children  at  a  game, 
Were  rival  climbers  to  the  heights  of  fame. 


A  WAYSIDE  WORLD 

Toad  winked  at  toad  and  Mister  Lizard's  sheen 
Was  hard  to  scan  against  the  grasses'  green. 
Two  rabbits  scampered  from  their  brush-abode 
And  played  at  derby-horse  along  the  road. 

A  dog,  still  limping  from  the  Winter's  chase, 
Jogged  down  the  dust  with  slow,  uncaring  pace. 
His  presence  gained  no  welcoming  from  me; 
The  charm  was  lost — so  was  my  reverie! 

I  knew  that  now  some  man  or  boy  must  bring 
My  new  world  to  an  end — wreck  everything! 
For  humankind,  somehow,  is  out  of  scheme 
With  Nature's  joy — an  Idler's  woodland  dream! 

"Nice  day !"  I  heard  a  passing  voice  declare. 
"Nice  day!"  my  own  half-muttered  to  the  air. 
"Nice  day !"  he  piped,  unmindful  of  my  scorn. 
"It's  gold  for  me!  So  mighty  good  for  corn!" 


THE  VANISHED  FORUM 

SOMEHOW  I  can't  git  anchored 

In  th'  sea  of  modern  ways : 
My  memory  keeps  on  driftin' 

To'rd  th'  beach  of  other  days. 
Now  there's  th'  old  post-office — 

Oh,  I  want  it  back  ag'in 
With  that  glad-to-see-ye  spirit 

Of  th'  neighbors  droppin'  in. 

No  one  denies  it's  handy 

Havin'  mail  right  at  yer  door, 
But  that  don't  settle  questions 

Like  we  settled  'em  before. 
A  mail  box  at  th'  crossroads 

Is  a  blessin',  'thout  a  doubt, 
But  it  can't  stand  an'  argy 

P'ints  yer  wantin'  argied  out. 
79 


THE    VANISHED    FORUM 

Th'  old  post-office  lobby 

Was  a  lively  place  to  be, 
When  some  one  started  somethin' 

An'  nobody  could  agree. 
There  was  politics,  religion; 

Subjects,  too,  of  world-wide  note, 
An'  we'd  stand  'bout  fifty-fifty 

If  they'd  put  it  to  a  vote. 

Sometimes  I  git  to  thinkin', 

With  th'  old  post-office  back, 
Th'  boys  we  send  to  Congress 

Might  git  on  a  clearer  track. 
That  old  post-office  lobby, 

Though  they'd  put  it  on  the  shelf, 
Struck  me,  in  p'int  of  wisdom, 

Like  a  Congress  in  itself! 


BREAKIN'  IN 

OF  ALL  th'  griefs  there  is,  I  bet, 
That  fills  a  guy  with  sad  regret, 
It's  when  your  folks  pack  up  some  day 
An'  take  their  things  an'  move  away. 

Big  folks,  somehow,  don't  seem  to  mind 
A-leavin'  good  old  pals  behind, 
'Cause  if  they  did  they  wouldn't  do 
No  movin'  ever'  week  or  two. 

Gee,  ain't  it  tough  to  go  an'  make 
New  gang  friends  just  fer  movin's  sake? 
I  don't  believe  there's  nothin'  worse 
Outside  o'  ridin'  in  a  hearse. 

You  don't  no  more  than  git  moved  in 
Till  kids  that  live  near  by  begin 
A-snoopin'  'round  to  slip  a  bluff 
An'  make  you  think  they're  awful  tough. 
81 


BREAKIN*  IN 

"Hello  there,  Willie!"  they  ixclaim, 
But  they  don't  know  that  ain't  your  name. 
An'  then  they  poke  at  you  an'  laugh 
To  see  if  you're  a  "cowardy  calf." 


Next  thing  they  say  :  "Oh  say,  gee 
That  poor  guy's  got  th'  rheumatiz. 
If  he  ain't  dead  he's  purty  near 
An'  we  don't  want  no  corpses  here." 

Well,  gee,  there's  nothin'  else  to  do 
But  haul  right  off  an'  bu'st  a  few, 
Then  you  belong  —  you're  tooken  in 
Until  your  blamed  folks  move  ag'in. 


82 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  LIMPY  LOU 

SHE'S  a  four-lung  craft 

Jammed  for'ud  an'  aft 
With  th'  junk  of  a  care-free  crew, 

An'  th'  sea  she  sails 

Is  th'  far-flung  trails 
An'  we  calls  her  th'  Limpy  Lou. 

Lou  wuzn't  designed 

Fer  no  folks  refined, 
An'  she  ain't  got  no  racing  fame ; 

Her  old  tires  go  flat 

An'  she  limps  from  that, 
But  she  gits  us  there  just  th'  same. 

She's  pal  to  us  three — 

Wife,  Kiddie  an'  me — 
An'  she  don't  care  how  fur  we  roam; 

Lou  seems  to  surmise 

We're  vagabond  guys 
With  nothin'  but  her  fer  a  home. 

83 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  LIMPY  LOU 

Through  city  an'  town, 

Up  hill  an'  then  down, 
We  jog  on  our  gypsy  in'  way; 

Just  goin'  No-where 

An'  when  we  git  there 
Perhaps  we  may  like  it  an'  stay. 

An',  oh,  it's  a  treat 

When  time  comes  to  eat, 
Th'  bacon's  all  crispy  an'  brown; 

There's  beans  in  th'  pot, 

Th'  coffee's  all  hot- 
It  ain't  that  sweet  flavored  in  town. 

We  tumble,  kerplunk, 

In  a  tree-roofed  bunk 
An'  sleep  till  th'  break  o'  th'  dawn, 

Then  old  Limpy  Lou 

Takes  on  her  glad  crew, 
Slips  out  to  th'  road — an*  we're  gone ! 


84 


LITTLE  MISTER  FIXER  MAN 

LITTLE  Mister  Fixer  Man 

Fixes  everything  he  can; 
In  his  overalls  of  blue 

He  goes  seeking  things  to  do. 
Hammers,  wrenches,  planes  and  saws — 

All  the  tools  that  are  his  Pa's — 
Have  to  put  in  mighty  licks 

When  that  boy  has  things  to  fix. 

Little  Mister  Fixer  Man 

Fills  the  family  frying  pan 
With  a  lot  of  screws  and  nails, 

Then  starts  in  to  fill  the  pails! 
Oh,  it  takes  a  lot  of  stuff 

Ere  The  Fixer  has  enough 
To  repair  the  woodshed  lock 

Or  the  old  Seth  Thomas  clock. 


LITTLE   MISTER   FIXER    MAN 

Little  Mister  Fixer  Man 

Has  his  own  wage-earning  plan; 
When  the  cookie  jar  won't  pay 

He  won't  do  a  lick  that  day! 
But,  if  it  is  full,  then  he 

Labors  on  most  zealously. 
His  pay  must  be  "in  advance" — 

Fixer  never  takes  a  chance. 

Little  Mister  Fixer  Man 

Fixes  everything  he  can ; 
Fixes  things  quite  frequently 

Just  the  way  they  should  not  be. 
Still,  who  cares  to  count  the  cost? 

He's  worth  more  than  all  that's  lost. 
It's  worth  all  to  hear  him  say : 

"Gee,  I'm  tired!    I've  worked  to-day!" 


86 


THE  TREE  NOBODY  BOUGHT 

WHEN  Christmas,  crowned  with  happiness, 

Goes  down  its  ancient  way 
To  anchor  in  the  memory-mists 

Of  Sweet-forever  Bay, 
Just  one  dark  thought  it  leaves  behind, 

To  me  with  sadness  fraught; 
It  is  that  little,  lonesome  thing — 

The  Tree  Nobody  Bought! 

I  don't  feel  so  about  a  toy, 

A  doll,  a  train  or  drum; 
They  live  for  other  Christmases — 

The  happy  ones  to  come. 
Not  so  with  this  year's  Christmas  Tree, 

But  once  it  serves  the  cause 
Of  gladdening  sweet  babyhood 

And  good  old  Santa  Claus. 


THE  TREE  NOBODY  BOUGHT 

How  doubly  tragic  is  the  fate 

Of  trees  that  never  know 
The  gladness  of  a  Christmas  morn 

With  candles  all  aglow. 
I  speak  for  those  that  lie  unclaimed 

Along  the  thoroughfare 
When  Santa  Claus  has  come  and  gone 

And  still  they  linger  there. 

Poor  little  things!    How  desolate, 

How  friendless  they  appear; 
They  who  had  come  from  distant  hills 

To  spread  their  gladness  here. 
Still,  I  believe  that  trees  have  souls 

And  in  some  other  clime 
They'll  get  to  be  what  they  most  wished- 

A  Christmas  Tree — some  time! 


88 


SAID  THE  TRAFFIC  COP,  SMILINGLY 

YES,  of  course,  it's  all  a  nuisance, 

Traffic  rules  are  pests,  I  know; 
I'd  be  glad,  if  I  were  Captain, 

Just  to  wink  and  let  you  go. 
But  I'm  not — I'm  just  a  hireling 

With  my  weary  rounds  to  trudge. 
It's  all  right  with  me — but,  brother — 

Better  go  and  see  the  Judge. 

How's  that,  madam?    Ain't  it  awful? 

You  just  drove  your  car  down-town, 
Then  dropped  in  to  buy  a  bonnet 

And  a  simple  little  gown? 
In  the  store  just  twenty  minutes? 

Ain't  time  awful  in  its  flight? 
See  the  Judge  to-morrow  morning; 

Nice  young  fellow — he's  all  right. 
89 


SAID  THE  TRAFFIC   COP,   SMILINGLY 

Oh,  your  watch  stopped?    Ain't  that  madd'ning? 

Mine  stopped,  too,  the  other  day, 
Nearly  made  me  late  to  roll  call ; 

Guess  I'll  give  the  thing  away. 
Tell  the  Judge  just  how  it  happened ; 

Judge  is  nice — he'll  understand. 
Tell  him  you  were  three  hours  over — 

Blame  it  on  the  minute  hand. 

Wife  forgot  to  telephone  you 

Where  she'd  parked  the  car? — well,  say, 
Ain't  that  like  forgetful  women? 

Don't  they  do  things  just  that  way? 
Well,  let's  see,  how  can  we  fix  it? 

Say,  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do — 
See  the  Judge  to-morrow  morning; 

He  won't  do  a  thing  to  you. 


90 


THE    LITTLE    THING    CALLED    "GOOD 
MORNING" 

IT  LIVES  in  a  cheer-niche  somewhere  in  The  Soul, 
Just  give  it  a  start,  then  away  it  will  roll, 
And  all  it  will  take  is  a  smile  for  its  toll — 

The  little  thing  called  "Good  Morning!" 
There's  something  about  it  of  magical  skill, 
It  goes  to  the  mine  pit  and  up  to  the  mill ; 
Gives  dimples  to  Mary  and  chuckles  to  Bill — 

The  little  thing  called  "Good  Morning !" 

Of  course  there  are  places,  I'm  sorry  to  say, 
Where  that  merry  minstrel  has  never  held  sway ; 
The  whistle  just  blows,  then  they  start  on  the  day 

And  nobody  says :  "Good  Morning !" 
Like  slaves  in  the  galleys  they  take  up  the  grind, 
Pass  elbow  to  elbow  as  though  they  were  blind ; 
Leave  love  in  the  lockers  and  call  life  unkind — • 

Where  nobody  says:  "Good  Morning!" 
Or 


THE  LITTLE  THING  CALLED     GOOD  MORNING 

But  oh,  there  are  places  I  joy  to  go  in! 

Where  little  "Good  Morning!"  arrives  with  a 

grin 
And  makes  all  the  toilers  of  workaday  kin — 

The  shop  where  they  say :  "Good  Morning !" 
I've  known  it  to  win  the  most  arrogant  boss, 
Bring  joy  to  a  job  long  condemned  as  a  cross; 
Oil  all  the  machinery,  make  profit  of  loss — 

That  little  soul-song:  "Good  Morning!" 


92 


THE  KITCHEN  PUMP 

'COURSE  city  fellers  gits  to  have  a  lot  o'  things 

to  eat, 
Like  lickrish  drops   an'  sody  pops  an'  mutton 

chops  fer  meat. 
But  I've  got  somethin'  here  at  home — out  where 

th'  country  is — 
That  beats  their  'ristocratic  stuff  an'  ornamental 

fizz. 
It's   water — just   pure   water — but    it's   mighty 

plain  to  see 
There  ain't  no  better  pardners  than  th'  kitchen 

pump  an'  me. 
We  love  each  other  dearer  than  a  lot  of  kinfolks 

do, 
Which  you  can't  grasp  or  understand — our  pump 

ain't  kin  to  you! 
93 


THE  KITCHEN    PUMP 

It  stands  'long  side  th'  kitchen  where  th'  shadows 

loll  around 
To  keep   th'   old   pump   company   an'    cool   th' 

fevered  ground. 
An'  when  I've  been  a-playin'  hard  an'  want  to  stop 

an'  rest, 
Then's  when  I  love  th'  water  from  th'  kitchen 

pump  th'  best. 
It  seems  to  feel  in  duty  bound,  when  I'm  all  tired 

an*  hot, 
To  reach  clear  to  th'  bottom  fer  th'  coolest  drink 

it's  got. 
An'  that's  what  I  call  pardnership — th'  old  pump 

seems  to  grin 
Each  time  I  empty  out  th'  cup  an'  fill  it  up  ag'in. 

An'  lots  o'  times  when  we're  alone — if  no  one's 

here  that  day — 
Th'  kitchen  pump  an'  me  has  games  we  both  two 

like  to  play. 
We  'tend  th'  pump's  a  fountain  where  they's  sody 

water  at, 
With  mead  an*  sassfarilla  an'  a  lot  of  things  like 

that 

94 


THE   KITCHEN    PUMP 

Then  I  make  'maginations  like  I'm  rich  as  rich 

can  be 
An'  order  drinks  till  I  can't  hold  no  more  inside 

of  me. 
'Course  I  can  make  the  old  pump  give  just  what 

I  want  it  to, 
But  1  say:   "Gimme  shoe  late!" — just  like  city 

fellers  do! 


A  MIGRANT  MELODY 

THERE  came  from  an  alley  and  into  the  street 
The  haunting  refrain  of  a  melody  sweet; 

A  whistling  street-urchin  had  carried  it  down 

From  his  gallery  throne  to  a  turbulent  town. 
The  song  had  a  thrill  in  its  every  note; 
It  sweetened  the  lips  and  it  gladdened  the  throat ; 

It  danced  on  its  way  from  the  happy  boy's 
heart 

To  Sicily  Joe  of  the  strawberry-cart. 
Joe  gathered  it  up  with  a  welcoming  zeal 
And  shared  it  with  Tim  at  the  taxicab's  wheel ; 

Tim  carried  it  on  till  he  came  to  a  stop, 

Then  whistled  the  tune  for  a  boulevard  cop. 
The  boulevard  cop  found  the  turnkey  alone 
And  sang  him  the  melody  over  the  phone ; 

The  turnkey,  good  fellow,  in  whose  heart 
yet  dwells 

God's  pity,  soon  sent  it  down  into  the  cells. 
96 


A  MIGRANT  MELODY 

The  prisoners  took  cheer  in  the  melody  sweet 
And  out  through  the  bars  it  went  back  to  the 

street ; 
The  boy  who  had  first  sent  the  song  on  its 

way 
Said :  "Funny,  that's  twice  I  have  heard  that 

to-day!" 

And  so,  while  the  song  again  played  on  his  lips, 
He   met   some   seafaring  men   bound   for  their 

ships ; 

He  gave      to  them,  and  they  carried  it  on — 
Well,   nobody  knows  just  how   far  it  has 

gone! 
Which  all  goes  to  prove  that  when  God  would 

spread  joy, 
He  finds  He  can  always  depend  on  a  boy! 


97 


THE  GLORIOUS  FIRST 

I  HEARD  a  new  voice  in  the  street  to-day, 
One  I  never  had  heard  before; 

It  came  to  me,  shrill  as  a  piper's  note, 
Then  died  in  the  traffic's  roar. 

'Twas  the  voice  of  a  boy — a  voice  new-born 
To  the  rush  and  din  of  the  world ; 

He  was  taking  his  place,  with  shrinking  heart, 
Where  the  banner  of  Gain's  unfurled. 

He  snugged  up  close  to  the  alley  wall, 

As  a  child  to  its  mother  clings; 
He  made  me  think  of  a  bird  gone  forth 

On  the  first  free  test  of  its  wings. 

I  saw  him  enter  the  crowded  street, 

Then  halt — and  I  know  that  I  smiled 

As  he  opened  his  mouth  and  out  of  it  came 
A  cry,  terrorizingly  wild. 
98 


THE  GLORIOUS    FIRST 

It  startled  him  more  than  any  who  heard, 

I  paused  to  encourage  the  tot. 
"That's  right— go  to  it,  old  boy !"  I  said. 

"Give  them  all  of  the  yell  you've  got !" 

His  boy  face  gladdened  as  pennies  I  held 
Were  garnered  with  uttermost  glee. 

He  shouted  again — and  again! — and  again! 
He  had  sold  his  first  paper,  you  see. 

And  oh,  what  a  moment  that  is  to  a  boy ! 

It  ends  all  his  fears  and  regrets ; 
Though  ten  million  papers  were  sold — in  his  heart 

That  first  one  he  never  forgets! 


99 


You  merchants  with  your  motors, 
Your  swell,  upholstered  toters 

Of  human  bein's  lookin'  for  a  thrill; 
Don't  laugh  at  us,  you  fellers, 
You  second-hand  car  sellers — 

Old  Traders'  Alley's  doin'  business  still. 
While  you're  bewailin'  losses 
We're  still  a-swappin'  hosses — 

Yes,  call  'em  second-handed  if  you  will. 

Our  nags  don't  never  tarnish,1 

Fall  down  an'  scratch  their  varnish — 

i 

They  may  fall  down,  but  they  git  up  ag'in!^ 
We  don't  stand  'round  an'  twaddle 
Of  wheel-base,  tires  or  model — 

Th'  way  you  fellers  thrill  'em  is  a  sin. 
We  just  look  at  their  molars, 
See  if  they're  easy  strollers — 

If  they  can  walk — then  may  th'  best  man  win  I 
100 


SECOND-HAND   BOSSES 

Bill  says:  "How  much  you  gimme?" 

I  say,  "Now  don't  you  trim  me!" 
We  laugh  an'  swap  an'  swear  each  other's  stung. 

Th'  nag  may  be  a  blower, 

A  kicker  or  a  thrower, 
Have  half  of  one  per  cent,  of  one  good  lung. 

Still,  class  can't  be  demanded 

Of  hosses  second-handed — 
A  ringer  ain't  a  ringer  till  it's  rung! 

A  little  oats  or  clover 

May  make  a  hoss  all  over — 
No  motor-car  gits  fat  on  gasoline. 

It's  then  you  make  your  killin', 

Swap  off  your  Patch  or  Dillon — 
Th'  guys  all  wonder  where  you  got  th'  queen. 

Git  two  good  hosses  for  her, 

An'  then — Oh,  holy  horror! 
For  boot  you  git  a  second-hand  machine! 


101 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  CHRISTMAS  SHOP 

YES,  I  hear  you,  Miss  Jolly-go-romp, 

Calling  to  me  to  come : 
"Look  at  the  wonderful  Jack-in-box 

And  oh,  what  a  dandy  drum! 
See  all  the  beautiful  Chinese  dolls, 

And  yonder's  a  dancing  bear! 
There's  nothing  like  it  in  all  the  world; 

There  couldn't  be — anywhere!" 

Your  eyes  are  bright,  Miss  Jolly-go-romp ; 

It's  thrilling,  I  can't  deny, 
But  you  should  have  seen  the  Christmas  shop 

I  knew  in  the  days  gone  by. 
'Twas  not  so  large,  Miss  Jolly-go-romp, 

As  the  toyshops  are  to-day, 
But  oh,  it  was  more  mys-ter-i-ous, 

The  colors  were  far  more  gay ! 
1 02 


THE  OLD  MAN  S  CHRISTMAS  SHOP 

And  the  Toyship  Man,  Miss  Jolly-go-romp, 

What  a  quizzical  way  he  had ; 
He  knew  all  the  children  for  miles  around, 

Could  tell  all  the  good  from  bad. 
But  what  was  the  queerest  of  all  to  me 

Was  how  he  could  tell,  some  way, 
The  things  you  wanted  old  Santa  to  bring 

To  your  house  Christmas  Day. 

Let's  you  and  I,  Miss  Jolly-go-romp, 

Play  I  am  the  Toyshop  Man, 
While  you — well,  you're  Miss  Jolly-go-romp 

With  many  a  secret  plan. 
And  the  secrets — oh,  they  mustn't  get  out! — 

They're  sacred  as  troth  could  be, 
But,  being  the  Toyshop  Man,  of  course, 

You  whis-s-s-per  them  all  to  me! 


103 


HYMN-SINGIN'  JIM 

CO'SE  Ah  ain'  des  ezzackly  whut  yo'd  call  de 

shoutin'  kin' 
Dat  gits  so  dog-gone  'ligious  Ah  completely  lose 

ma  min'. 
Huh-uh!     Not  me!     But,  folks,  Ah  know  ma 

soul  ain'  gwine  to  be 
In  whut  de  high-tone'  preachahs  call  de  clutch  ob 

jeopahdy. 
Ah's  got  ma  own  'uligion  an'  it's  full  ob  lub  fo' 

Him 
Dat  gibs  dis  worl'  sech  Vangelists  as  ole  Hymn- 

singin'  Jim. 

No,  Jim  ain'  ole  in  age — he's  young! — but  it  do 

seem  to  me 
De  songs  he  sings  hab  trabeled  down  from  all 

eternity. 

104 


HYMN-SINGIN     JIM 

He  des  strums  up  dat  ole  guitah  an',  Sunday 

aftahnoon, 
Gits  out  dah  on  de  ole  back  po'ch  an'  ripples  up 

a  tune. 
It  ain'  no  giddy  ragtime  stuff — dey's  no  sech 

thing  in  Jim — 
But  dah,  in  tones  as  sof  as  prayer,  he  croons  a 

gospel  hymn. 

Fus'  come  ole  "Rock  ob  Ages"  an'  Ah  see  de 

stohm  waves  toss 
Dat  po'  white  angel  clingin'  to  de  ransom  ob  de 

Cross. 
Oh,   Ah  listen,  listen,  listen,  wif  ma  haid  bowed 

lak  to  pray, 
Till  ma  crowdin'  woes  an'  worries  gits  afraid  an' 

goes  away. 
Den  Ah  ketch  mase'f  a-smilin'  when  ole  Jim  strak 

up  de  song: 
"If  Yo's  Gwine  to  Glory,  Brothahs,  Come  an* 

Take  Ma  Soul  Along." 


105 


HYMN-SINGIN'  JIM 

Den  de  good  ole  "Jesus  Lovah"  comes  a-waftin* 

sof  an'  low 
Till  Ah  'magine  Gabr'el's  trumpet  gittin'  ready 

fo'  to  blow. 
Let  it  blow — Ah's  ready,  brothahs ! — but  de  truf e 

Ah  doan'  deny— 
Dey's  got  to  be  good  music  if  dey  keep  me  glad 

on  High. 
Dey's    got    to    be    some    singin'    by    de    angel 

seraphim 
If  dey  crowd  me  full  o'  'ligion  same  as  ole  Hymn- 

singin'  Jim. 


106 


WHEN  TH'  FIREMENS  COME 

AIN'T  nobody  ever  wuz 

Gits  me  mad  as  firemens  does; 

When  your  house  is  burnin'  they 

Act  like  it's  a  holiday, 

But  when  some  one  else's  burns, 

'Fore  a  person  hardly  turns 

The  alarm  in — why,  they're  there 

Squirtin'  worter  everywhere! 

I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  'bout — 
They  once  put  my  own  house  out! 
Say,  them  firemens,  seemed  to  me, 
Played  a  game  of  cards  to  see 
If  they'd  come  or  if  they'd  not — 
When  they  did  'twuz  in  a  trot! 
Still,  my  neighbors — every  one — 
Said  they  made  a  purty  run. 
107 


WHEN  TH'   FIREMENS   COME 

What  got  me  th'  worst  wuz  when 
One  went  up  th'  ladder,  then 
Turned  around  an'  said  he  s'pose 
He  would  have  to  have  some  hose. 
Never  seemed  to  care  a  dern 
If  th'  dog-gone  house  did  burn, 
Still,  he  got  some  hose,  I  guess — 
Loss  wuz  small,  I  must  confess. 

On  th'  other  hand  I've  been 
Where  a  fire  alarm  wuz  in 
An'  I  wondered,  as  it  were, 
If  'twould  be  spectaculer. 
Then  they  got  there — seemed  to  me — > 
'Fore  a  cat  could  climb  a  tree. 
Makes  a  difference,  I've  no  doubt, 
just  whose  house  they're  puttin'  outl 


108 


PUPS  AND  A  BOY 

SOME  folks  likes  to  go  an'  see 
Circus  shows — but  as  fer  me 
Git  some  pups,  then  find  a  boy 
An'  I'll  git  my  share  of  joy! 

Pups  theirselves,  when  they're  alone,- 
Makes  a  circus  all  their  own; 
Then  just  add  a  boy — an'  gee ! 
They're  a  whole  menagerie ! 

Boy  he'll  kind  o'  make  p'tend 
He's  their  only  livin'  friend; 
Then,  first  thing  you  know,  he'll  ist 
Give  their  tails  a  little  twist. 

Holler!  Gosh,  but  they'll  git  sore, 
Then  come  back  to  git  some  more. 
I've  seen  pups  put  up  a  bluff 
Like  they'd  never  had  enough. 
109 


PUPS  AND  A  BOY 

Boy  he'll  chase  'em  all  about 
Till  their  tongues  is  hangin'  out ; 
Ketch  'em  where  their  necks  is  slack, 
Then — kerflop ! — they're  on  their  back ! 

Oh,  they'll  snarl  an'  fume  an'  fuss 
Till  you'd  swear  you  heard  'em  cuss; 
Then  they'll  sneak  away  an'  quit 
Like  they'd  got  th'  worst  of  it. 

Boy,  all  tired,  thinks  he  has  won, 
But  them  pups  ain't  never  done; 
They  just  wait  to  ketch  his  grin, 
Then  hop  up  an'  start  ag'in! 


no 


THE  GIGGLEBUG 

WHEN  Patricia  giggles!  Goodness,  what  a  mess 
She  can  make  of  discontent  and  unhappiness! 
Once  we  see  her  baby  grin  broaden  to  a  smile, 
Then   we   know   the   Gigglebug's  coming  after 
while. 

There's    no    calculating    when    Gigglebug    will 

come — 

He  may  lurk  behind  a  crook  in  her  little  thumb. 
But  we  fancy  his  abode  is  the  looking-glass 
Where  he  lingers  every  day  hoping  she  will  pass. 

All  at  once  the  mirror  glows  with  a  baby  face, 
One  she,  somehow,  can't  recall  seeing  'round  the 

place. 

So  she  ponders  anxiously  on  the  face  unknown, 
Till  at  last  it  stands  revealed  as  her  very  own! 
in 


THE  GIGGLEBUG 

Then  the  giggles  start  to  come!    Gone  is  every 

frown 

As  she  perches  on  a  chair,  playing  circus  clown. 
Then  the  little  minx  pretends  she's  a  one-eyed  elf 
Hiding  in  the  looking-glass  winking  at  herself! 

Next  she  twists  her  baby  face  into  funny  forms, 
Till  the  giggles  fairly  grow  into  giggle-storms. 
There's  no  pausing  after  that — everything  she 

sees 
Tickles  her  until  she  falls,  giggling,  to  her  knees. 

Now  she  rolls  upon  the  floor,  kicking  heels  in  air, 

Laughing  at  the  funny  things  'round  her  every- 
where. 

There's  a  black  spot  on  her  nose — funny  as  can 
be!— 

There's  a  funny  bird  outside  in  a  funny  tree ! 

Oh,  you  funny  Gigglebug!    What  a  joy  you  are, 
Lurking  even  in  the  depths  of  the  cookie  jar! 
Yet,  we  say,  most  comical  of  all  the  things  you  do, 
Is,  when  Patricia  giggles — we  get  the  giggles  too ! 


112 


THE  MOODS  OF  WINTER 

OF  ALL  the  seasons,  Winter  seems  to  me 
More  temperamental  than  the  other  three. 
I've  seen  him  strike  the  old  a  chilling1  blow, 
Then  turn  and  paint  a  heart-alluring  glow 
On  maiden  faces — make  them  seem  to  be 
The  happy  heralds  of  his  artistry. 

But  Winter's  mood  is  never  half  as  sweet 
As  when  he  brings  Boy- Worship  to  his  feet. 
Ah,  then  it  is  he  lets  the  grumblers  groan, 
The  churls  lament,  the  cynics  chill  and  moan. 
Old  Winter  laughs  and  from  the  sky  o'erhead 
Brings  down  white  pathways  for  a  waiting  sled. 


THE  MOODS  OF  WINTER 

I've  witnessed  Winter  spread  his  snowy  sheet 
Alike  in  country  lane  and  city  street ; 
I've  heard  him  roar  his  far-resounding  call 
To  Youth  to  come  and  glory  in  it  all. 
Glad  Youth !    What  joy  indeed  it  is  to  be 
Play-comrade  to  a  comrade  such  as  he! 

Sometimes,  in  fancy,  I  hear  Winter  say 

A  smiling  boy  is  more  than  double  pay 

For  all  the  adult  waitings  he  must  bear 

When  pleas   for  snow   rule   Boyhood's   nightly 

prayer. 

So,  Winter,  laugh  and  from  the  sky  o'erhead 
Bring  down  white  pathways  for  a  waiting  sled. 


114 


DOCTOR  GRIN 

DAH  he  is!    Ole  Doctoh  Grin, 
Dosin'  me  wif  smiles  ag'in! 
Blamedest  thing  yo'  evah  see, 
Way  dat  young'un  doses  me. 

Seem  lak  he  lays  traps  to  ketch 
Me  a-feelin'  lak  a  wretch, 
Den — black  magic! — dah  he  is, 
Showin'  me  dem  teeth  o'  his! 

Ah  doan'  min',  yo'  undahstan', 
Allus  feelin'  good  an'  gran', 
Still,  same  time,  dey's  days  dat  come 
When  yo'  joys  in  feelin'  glum. 

Yes  suh,  days  of  languid  mood 
When  yo'  craves  des  solitude; 
Days  yo'  wants  to  hab  de  blues 
Till  yo's  glum  clean  to  yo'  shoes. 


DOCTOR  GRIST 

But,  it  happens  evah  time, 
When  Ah's  lollin'  in  de  grime, 
'Long  comes  Doctoh  Grin — an'  law  !- 
Yo'  mus'  laugh  er  bus'  yo'  jaw  I 

No,  it  ain'  what  ole  Doc  say 
Drives  de  pollywogs  away, 
It's  de — dah  he  is  ag'in! 
Gimme  room — Ah's  got  t'  grin! 


116 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  COMIC 

TIMES  keep  changing-,  changing,  changing  as  the 
years  go  rolling  by, 

Some  one's  always  disarranging  things  we 
cherished — you  and  I. 

There's  the  valentine,  for  instance — yes,  the 
comic  ones  of  old — 

In  the  shops  they'll  smile  and  tell  you:  "Com- 
ics aren't  being  sold!" 

Yes,  they're  banished  from  the  counter  of  the 
little  corner  store 

Since  they  don't  have  old-maid  teachers  at  the 
schoolhouse  any  more. 

You  remember,  'way  back  yonder,  in  our  days  of 

Youth  and  Song, 
How  we  waited  for  Saint  Valentine  to  help  us 

right  a  wrong. 
117 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  COMIC 

Teachers  then  were  old  and  crusty,  tired  of  life 

and  all  its  joy; 
Two  events  alone  gave  pleasure — pay-day  and 

an  erring  boy! 
Valentines?     Of  course  they  got  them!     Love 

now  settles  every  score, 
Since  they  don't  have  old-maid  teachers  at  the 

schoolhouse  any  more. 

You  remember,   I   remember,   how  the  teacher 

looked  at  us; 
How     each     thought     he     heard     her     saying1: 

"There's  the  guilty  little  cuss!" 
And  you  knew,  down  deep  within  you,  that  you 

really,  truly  were 
The  one  who  sent  the  valentine  marked  "Teacher 

Dear"  to  her. 
Pal,    to-day   you'd   send    the    sender    sprawling 

through  the  open  door, 
Since  they  don't  have  old-maid  teachers  at  the 

schoolhouse  any  more. 


118 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  COMIC 

Yes,  the  market's  closed  to  comics — dainty  ones 

are  all  you'll  get — 
It's  a  sweet  distinction,  Buddy,  to  be  called  the 

teacher's  pet. 
Love  abides  where  once  was  hatred,  smiles  long 

since  have  banished  tears, 
Proving   well   my   declaration   that   we   live   in 

changing  years. 
Valentines   to-day   are   bonbons — roses — violets, 

galore — 
Since  they  don't  have  old-maid  teachers  at  the 

schoolhouse  any  more. 


119 


BLUE  SMOKE 

WHEN  I  am  all  town-tired  and  weary, 

All  tired  hearing  people  complain, 
All  tired  of  the  rush  and  the  hurry 

That  goes  with  the  battle  for  gain; 
When  I  need  scenes  quiet  and  restful, 

And  Autumn  has  come  with  its  chill, 
I  pack  myself  up  for  consignment 

To  Blue  Smoke,  down  under  the  hill. 

Blue  Smoke,  let  me  say,  is  a  cabin 

Where  humble  folk  happily  dwell; 
They  haven't  great  harvests  to  gather, 

They  haven't  great  harvests  to  sell. 
And  yet  they  are  blessed  with  God's  plenty — 

Enough! — and  a  fullness  of  love 
That  seems  to  burst  forth  when  the  chimney 

Sends  blue  smoke  parading  above! 
1 20 


BLUE  SMOKE 

I  joy  just  to  sit  on  the  hillside 

And  banish  all  city-born  woe, 
As  smoke  clouds  go  swirling  and  curling 

From  that  little  cabin  below. 
I  picture  a  great  backlog  burning, 

I  fancy  the  sparks,  in  their  joy, 
Are  dancing  a  jig  that  is  whistled 

Or  sung  by  some  glad  girl  and  boy. 

So,  when  I'm  all  town-tired  and  weary, 
All  tired  hearing  people  complain; 

All  tired  of  the  rush  and  the  hurry- 
That  goes  with  the  battle  for  gain; 

When  I  need  scenes  quiet  and  restful, 

And  Autumn  has  come  with  its  chill, 

I  pack  myself  up  for  consignment 

To  Blue  Smoke,  down  under  the  hill  1 


AT  MONTICELLO  DAM 

I'M  not  th'  kind  of  feller  that  persistently  pursues 
His  friends  an'  neighbors  with  a  flood  of  creeds 

an'  cults  an'  views. 
My  scheme  of  livin's  broad  enough  to  let  us  all 

git  in 
With  talk  about  th'  things  we've  done  an'  places 

we  have  been. 
Of  course  my  range  of  travel  ain't  as  fur  as  old 

Siam 
But,  say — I  have  been  fishin'  up  at  Monticello 

dam! 

It's  on  th'  good  old  Tippecanoe  an'  let  me  here 

declare 
Earth  boasts  no  stream  ner  ocean  any  sweeter 

anywhere. 

12  J 


AT  MONTICELLO  DAM 

Seems  like  it  just  comes  laughin'  down  from  up 

'bove  Winamac, 
Then   hits   old   Monticello   dam,   jumps   up   an' 

bounces  back. 
Next  thing  you  know  it's  rompin'  'round  th'  edge 

er  oozin'  through 
Th'  planks  so's  it  can  demonstrate  its  very  love 

fer  you. 

They's  lots  of  folks,  of  course,  with  yachts  an' 
mansions  by  the  sea, 

But  they  don't  know  my  river  an'  they've  never 
fished  with  me. 

They've  never  had  that  feelin'  of  devotion  fer  a 
joy 

That  kind  o'  merges  manhood  with  th'  day- 
dreams of  a  boy. 

It's  here  at  Monticello  dam  I  know  th'  pure 
delight 

Of  bein'  crazy-happy — but  th'  fish  have  got  to 
bite. 


123 


THE  PIPE  OF  PEACE 

THEY'S  times  at  comes  to  every  kid  when  he  ain't 

crowned  with  joy; 
When  he  don't  care  if  he's  his  Ma's  or  some  one 

else's  boy. 
He  wouldn't  mind  if  he  was  dead  an'  buried  'way 

down  deep, 
Fer  then  his  pain  would  all  be  gone  an'  he  could 

git  some  sleep. 

Still,   there's  one  time  when  havin'  pain   don't 

seem  so  hard  to  bear; 
Like  me,  when  I've  got  earache  an'  old  Uncle  Jim 

is  there. 
Say,  he  beats  all  th'  doctors  you  could  mention, 

purty  near, 
When  he  sits  down  with  his  old  pipe  an'  blows 

smoke  in  my  ear. 
124 


THE  PIPE  OF  PEACE 

It's  all  so  mild  an'  soothin'  that  your  ear  will  soon 

fergit 
Th'  sweet  oil  an'  the  cotton  that  your  Mother 

stuffed  in  it. 
Th'  smoke  clouds  kind  o'  linger  with  a  breath  so 

coolin'  hot 
They  seem  to  ooze  right  through  your  ear  an* 

— well,  just  hit  th'  spot! 

A  drowsy  feelin'  gits  you  as  th'  hurt  all  disap- 
pears, 

An'  somethin'  happy — not  th'  smoke — fills  both 
your  eyes  with  tears. 

Why,  if  the  angels  Up  Above  should  git  th'  ear- 
ache, too, 

They  ought  to  send  fer  Uncle  Jim — that's  what 
they  ought  to  do! 


125 


WHAT  THE  TOYMAKER  THINKS 

I  WONDER  just  what  the  Toymaker  thinks, 
As  he  sits  by  his  fire  and  nods  and  blinks 
At  the  close  of  day,  when  his  toil  is  done 
And  he  dreams  and  rests  till  another  sun. 

I  wonder  if  he,  as  he  sits  and  rocks, 
Gives  ever  a  thought  to  Jack-in-the-box; 
To  drums  or  horns,  or  the  simplest  toy 
That  gave  him  a  thrill  when  he  was  a  boy. 

All  day,  in  his  shop,  he  has  rushed  about 
To  get  his  orders  from  Santa  Claus  out. 
And  how  well  he  knew  he  must  get  them  done 
Or  there  would  be  tears  where  there  should  be 
fun. 

126 


WHAT   THE   TOYMAKER  THINKS 

So  I  always  wonder  just  what  he  thinks 
As  he  sits  by  his  fire  and  nods  and  blinks. 
Does  ever  the  wish  find  way  to  his  heart 
That  children  would  tire  of  his  magic  art? 

Just  think  what  a  gloomy  old  world  'twould  be 
If  Santa's  toymakers  should  ever  agree 
To  leave  off  their  work  and  scurry  away, 
Or  go  on  a  strike  for  an  eight-hour  day! 

It  just  couldn't  happen!    It  never  has  yet, 
So  why  need  we  worry  and  fear  and  fret? 
For  centuries  past  each  toymaker  born 
Has  had  a  glad  part  in  some  Christmas  Morn. 

I've  even  been  told  they  take  a  great  pride 
In  helping  old  Santa  get  ready  to  ride. 
And  what  I  like  best — they  tell  me  they  hear 
The  children  are  all  growing  "gooder"  each  year! 


127 


THE  "MAKIN'S" 

THERE'S  lots  o'  sly  nudgin'  an'  noddin' 

Broke  loose  in  Our  Town,  let  me  say, 
Since  Prohis  have  made  a  Sahara 

Of  "Kelly's  Place— Bar  and  Cafe." 
Th'  Prohis  stand  'round,  kind  o'  grinnin', 

A-boastin'  th'  good  they  have  done, 
But  they  don't  know  all  that's  a-happ'nin' — 

They're  not  havin'  all  o'  th'  fun ! 

You  see — keep  this  dark — it's  a  secret — 

Most  ev'ry  good  feller  you  meet 
Knows  some  one  who  knows  of  a  feller 

Who  has  a  good  "makin's"  receipt. 
For  instance,  Bun  Grubbs  told  Bill  Birdlow 

A  drummer  he'd  met  out  in  Nome 
Had  sent  him  a  formula — whisper! — 

For  makin'  it  right  in  your  home. 
128 


THE      MAKIN  S 

Yes,  sir,  he  told  Bunny  th'  secret, 

An'  Bunny  told  Bill,  don't  you  see? 
An'  Bill — not  one  bone  in  him's  selfish — 

Snuck  'round  here  an'  told  it  to  me. 
There's  somethin'  you  buy  at  th'  drug  store 

An'  mix  it  all  up  in  a  'jar, 
Then  slip  in  some  yeast  an' — they  tell  me 

It's  good  as  you'd  buy  at  a  bar. 

No,  I  ain't  done  none  o'  th'  brewin', 

There's  nobody  tried  it  as  yet; 
We  just  have  th'  word  that  it's  soothin' 

An'  makes  you  forgive  an'  forget. 
An'  then  there's  Red  Coogan's  concoction; 

Red  says  there's  a  feller  he  knows 
Puts  raisins  in  somethin'  an' — Red  says — 

It  tickles  clear  down  to  your  toes. 

An'  Snipe  Turby  knows  of  a  method 
That's  easy  as  watchin'  it  rain — 

A  mixture  of  corn  an'  sweet  cider 

That  looks  like  it  might  be  champagne. 


129 


It  all  sounds  seductive — allurin* — - 

But  deep  in  my  bosom  there  lurks 

Th'  Shadow  of  Doubt — so  I'm  waitin' 
Till  somebody  proves  that  it  works! 


THE  BELOVED  FAT  MAN 

THAT  "Nobody  loves  a  fat  man"  conveys  quite 
a  wrong  impression; 

There's  one  that  I  know  whose  jovial  glow  makes 
him  a  world  possession. 

He's  loved  in  Alaska,  in  France,  Athabasca;  in 
Panama,  Cuba  and  Rome; 

He  has  friends  in  Dakota,  New  York,  Min- 
nesota— and,  oh,  what  a  throng  here 
at  homel 

His  lovable  smile  has  warmed  multiplied  hearts 
in  tropical  habitations; 

He  has  tickled  papooses  in  circus  cabooses  and 
off  in  remote  reservations. 

He  has  gone  over  mountains,  through  deserts,  by 
fountains  and  into  the  deepest  dells; 

This  most  wonderful  wizard  has  battled  a  bliz- 
zard to  find  where  one  baby  dwells. 
13* 


THE  BELOVED   FAT   MAN 

His  musical  name  is  as  tunefully  sweet  as  any- 
thing operatic; 

The  chime  of  his  bells  in  their  rhythmical  swells 
is  truly  a  joy  ecstatic. 

He  goes  singing  his  way  from  dark  until  day — 
perhaps  that  is  why  he  is  fat ! 

For  a  man  with  a  song  stays  sturdy  and  strong — 
have  you  ever  yet  pondered  that  ? 

Old    Santa    Claus — bless    his    jovial    heart — is 

flooded  with  world-devotion; 
He  is  loved  in  the  hills  and  down  by  the  mills 

and  over  the  widespread  ocean. 
But  what  mystifies  me  is  the  skill  with  which  he 

goes  down  every  chimney  he  knows ; 
Goes  down  with  his  pack  and  then  scurries  back 

without  any  soot  on  his  nosel 


THE  INDISPENSABLE  DOBBIN 

LAUGH  if  you  will,  oh,  Motor  Clan, 

Then  halt  your  laugh  where  it  began ; 

Old  Dobbin  still  has  one  smile  left 

Of  which  he  has  not  been  bereft. 

One  horse  remains  to  mock  your  greed; 

The  children's  friend — the  milkman's  steed! 

You've  motorized  the  fireman's  job, 
You've  gassed  the  cemetery's  sob; 
You've  spread  salvation's  call  afar — 
They're  preaching  to  us  from  a  car ! 
Still  there's  one  job  you  can  not  get — 
The  milkman's  horse  is  with  us  yet ! 
133 


The  milkman's  horse  goes  on  his  way 
Unmindful  of  the  motor's  sway; 
What  motor-car  could  ever  tell 
Where  all  the  milkman's  patrons  dwell? 
A  car  its  steel-born  soul  would  give 
To  know  where  all  the  children  live. 

What  motor-car  in  all  the  land 

Gets  sugar  from  a  baby's  hand? 

No  purring  engine  ever  stops 

For  clover  blooms  or  lollypops. 

So  may  we  have,  till  Time  shall  end, 

The  milkman's  horse — the  children's  friend! 


134 


THE  OLD  YEAR 

THE  OLD  YEAR,  swept  by  tides  of  all-regretful 

tears, 
Now  bows  its  head  to  bear  the  somber  Pall  of 

Years ; 

Now  bows  its  heart  to  do  the  penance  of  a  slave, 
Hard  bent  upon  his  journey  toward  a  Stygian 

grave. 

Yet,  what  are  years  but  sun-kissed  pebbles  cast, 
With  full  care-freedom  in  that  filmy  sea,  The 

Past? 
The  Past?     That  is  To-morrow  taken  from  its 

play, 
And  sent  to  find  an  unreturning  Yesterday. 


135 


OLD  MAN 

OLD  MAN  he's  th'  queerest  one 
Ever  wuz  since  time  begun; 
He  ist  knows  more  things  'at  you 
Hardly  can't  believe  they're  true. 

Ist,  fer  instance,  Old  Man  swears 
He  has  e't  th'  meat  from  bears 
He  went  out  an'  killed  one  day 
When  he'd  tired  of  other  play. 

Old  Man  likes  to  brag  about 
How  he  drove  th'  Injuns  out — 
Him  an'  his  big  brother,  who 
Killed  'em  ever'  day  er  two! 

'Course  I  ist  can't  say  'at  he 
Tells  things  what  ain't  so  to  me, 
Still  it's  funny  how  he  knows 
All  he  does  'bout  circus  shows. 
136 


OLD  MAN 

Old  Man  says  when  he  wuz  small 
Circus  ain't  no  show  at  all 
'Less  two  hundred  clowns  er  more 
Met  you  at  th'  circus  door. 

Old  Man  says  he  can't  be  wrong — 
He's  seen  show  trains  ten  miles  long. 
Yes,  an'  camels  so  immense 
Their  big  humps  held  up  th'  tents. 

Maybe  it's  all  true — an'  yet 
They's  one  thing  ain't  so  I  bet — 
'At's  th'  one  he  tells  how  he 
Ever'  time  would  git  in  free! 


'37 


A  ROOF-TOP  REVERIE 

Away  up  here  on  the  roof-top 

Where  the  cooling  breezes  blow, 
I  joy  in  my  noon  hour's  leisure 

To  muse  of  the  crowds  below. 
Though  humble  my  own  vocation, 

I  look  to  the  streets  to  see 
If  one  of  those  pilgrims  legion 

Leaves  envy  of  soul  in  me. 

I  gaze  far  out  to  the  country, 

Then  fancy  I  see  a  frown 
That  tells  of  a  farm  boy's  longing 

For  life  in  the  crowded  town. 
And  down  in  the  streets  below  me 

Are  folk  I  know  would  be  glad 
Had  they  the  sweet  range  of  vision 

That  comes  to  a  farmer  lad. 
138 


A  ROOF-TOP  REVERIE 

He  pines  for  the  thrills  and  frenzies 

Found  only  where  throngs  abide; 
They  long  for  the  restful  quiet 

The  woods  and  the  streams  provide. 
The  boy  craves  music  and  laughter, 

A  place  in  the  gay  parade; 
But,  oh,  how  the  throng  would  cherish 

Just  one  glad  hour  in  the  shade! 

It  must  be  Life's  plan  of  balance; 

It  never  would  do,  I  guess, — 
If  all  took  the  self-same  pathway 

We'd  know  only  toil  and  stress. 
So,  'way  up  here  on  the  roof-top, 

Where  soul-cheering  breezes  blow, 
I'll  joy  in  my  noon  hour's  leisure 

And  pity  the  crowds  below. 


139 


WHEN  MOTHER  RUBS  IT  IN 

I'VE  never  seen  my  Mother  wearin'  such  a  tickled 

look, 
She  smiles  just  like  th'  angels  in  a  fairy  story 

book. 
She   goes   around   a-singin',   with  her  voice  all 

keyed  up  high, 
Like  some  one  seekin'  vengeance  fer  a  wrong  of 

days  gone  by. 

I  don't  know  what's  th'  matter,  but  she  seems  to 

like  to  hear 
Me  come  from  school  a-sneezin'  an'  a-coughin'  in 

her  ear. 
Then  she  rushes  to  th'  kitchen,  chucklin'  sweetly 

to  herself, 
An'  down  th'  dog-gone  goose  grease  comes  from 

off  th'  pantry  shelf. 
140 


WHEN  MOTHER  RUBS  IT  IN 

"Come  here!"  says  she,  dramatic!     "Come  here, 

my  stiff rin'  son; 
My  mother  did  this  same  to  me — an'  she  had  lots 

o'  fun!" 
Then  she  starts  in  a-rubbin'  my  neck,  my  back  an' 

chest, 
An'  'fore  she's  through  I'm  needin'  'bout  twenty 

nights  of  rest. 

She  stands  off  lookin'  at  me — we're  both  clear 

out  o'  breath — 
Then  shakes  her  head  an'  shudders,  till  I'm  'bout 

scared  to  death. 
She  throws  a  shawl  around  her  head,  an'  soon  I 

hear  her  feet 
A-trippin' — oh,  so  gaily! — to  th'  drug  store  up 

th'  street. 

I  see  her  through  th'  window  as  she  comes  across 

th'  yard; 
Oh,  I  know  what  she's  boughten — it's  turkentine 

an'  lard! 


141 


WHEN  MOTHER  RUBS  IT  IN 

Th'  kitchen  stove  starts  boomin',  th'  lard  melts 

in  a  pan, 
Then  I  hear  Mother  sayin' :  "Come  to  Mother, 

little  man!" 

Oh,  gee !  Oh,  gosh !    Oh,  pshaw !    Oh,  my !    That 

dog-gone  turkentine 
She  splashes  all  around  my  chest  an'  up  an'  down 

my  spine. 
But  she  don't  seem  to  think  of  me — she  chuckles 

with  delight, 
Then  says:  "When  I  was  young  my  Ma  did  this 

way  ever'  night!" 

Next  thing  she's  in  th'  bathroom,  where  medicine 

is  at, 
A-talkin'  to  herself!     Says  she:  "I'd  better  give 

him  that!" 
An'  then  it  happens!     I  can  feel  my  soul  begin 

to  boil; 
She's  gone  an'  got — she's  got  it! — she's  got  th' 

castor  oil! 


142 


AIN'T  BOYS  FUNNY? 

AIN'T  boys  funny?    Ain't  boys  queer? 
They  don't  change  much,  year  on  year. 
Pals  grow  up  and  then  there  comes 
In  their  wake  new  boyhood  chums. 
Do  and  say  things  they  enjoy 
Just  as  you  did  when  a  boy ; 
Same  old  views  of  good  and  harm 
Since  old  Adam  lost  his  farm. 

Ain't  boys  funny?    Ain't  boys  queer? 
Now  that  Spring  is  almost  here 
You  can  see  them  wand 'ring  far 
Out  where  creeks  and  rivers  are. 
Just  the  minute  Winter  shows 
Signs  of  turning  up  its  toes, 
Mister  Boy  and  all  his  clan 
Form  a  creek-bound  caravan. 
143 


AIN'T  BOYS  FUNNY? 

Ain't  boys  funny?    Ain't  boys  queer? 
Once  the  ice  floes  disappear 
Each  boy  dares  each  pal  of  his 
Feel  how  cold  the  water  is ! 
Each  boy  knows  when  that  begins 
They'll  go  home  wet  to  their  skins. 
Clothes  all  muddy — soggy  feet — 
Oh,  but  ain't  foot-music  sweet? 

Ain't  boys  funny?    Ain't  boys  queer? 
Each  boy  knows  the  talk  he'll  hear 
When  his  mother  turns  to  see 
Her  disheveled  progeny. 
Yes,  of  course,  he'd  show  his  wrath 
If  she  made  him  take  a  bath 
In  a  tub  of  ice  and  sand — 
Mothers  never  understand! 


144 


A  GARDEN  PATRIOT 

The  Sun,  the  Dew  and  a  Snowball  Bush 
Met  back  of  our  neighbor's  door ; 

Good  friends  they  were  who  had  often  met 
In  that  same  place  before. 

The  Sun  and  Dew  were  in  boastful  mood 
And  talked  of  the  silver  sheen 

They  cast  each  morn  on  the  Snowball  Bush 
And  over  the  grasses  green. 

At  last  the  Sun  and  Dew,  grown  tired 

Of  vain,  self-meted  praise, 
Made  bold  to  ask  the  Snowball  Bush 

What  joy  had  crowned  its  days. 

With  smiles  the  Bush  impelled  each  bloom 

To  lift  its  snow-white  head, 
Then,  swayed  by  calm  and  friendly  winds, 

The  topmost  blossom  said: 
MS 


A  GARDEN  PATRIOT 

"We  are  the  garden's  White  Zouaves 
That  march  the  paths  of  May 

To  bivouac  where  the  soldier  sleeps 
On  Decoration  day. 

"Though  buds  of  other  hues  may  fail, 
Our  humblest  blossoms  rise 

To  vie  with  flags  that  wave  above 
The  grave  wherein  he  lies. 

"And  ah,  'tis  good  and  fitting,  too, 
That  God  has  made  us  so, 

For  those  who  bear  our  blossoms  there, 
Like  us — are  crowned  with  snow!" 


146 


THE  TREE  DOCTOR 

I  find  but  small  excitement  in  this  antiquated 

lore, 
The  digging  up  of  Babylon  or  finding  Canaan's 

shore ; 
My  heart  yearns  not  for  treasure  nor  collegiate 

degrees, 
But,  lordy,  how  I'd  glory  to  be  Doctor  of  the 

Trees ! 

I  met  one  just  this  morning,  as  I  idled  up  the 

street, 
A  man   whose   sentiments   of   life  make   living 

doubly  sweet. 
He  said  he  had  a  gospel,  which,  embodied  as  a 

whole, 
Is:  "God  makes  human  every  tree,  ennobling  it 

with  soul." 

147 


THE  TREE  DOCTOR 

He  was  then  on  mercy's  errand  to  a  locust,  half- 
decayed, 

Its  body  almost  lifeless  and  the  limbs  fast  losing 
shade. 

It  was  good  to  see  the  Doctor  as  he  diagnosed  the 
case, 

His  pity  for  the  patient  sadly  pictured  on  his 
face. 

He  pondered  for  a  moment,  then  with  earnest  zeal 

began 

To  be  physician  to  a  tree  as  others  are  to  man. 
He  sought  each  little  ailment  that  infested  it  to 

see 
What  antidotes  might  be  applied,  what  forms  of 

surgery. 

He  found  dire  complications — there  were  leprosies 

of  scale — 
Yet  he  possessed  the  remedies  he  knew  would 

never  fail. 


148 


THE  TREE  DOCTOR 

I  liked  his  buoyant  confidence  when,  from  the 

parts  decayed, 
He  tore  the  blight  until,  behold ! — clean  apertures 

were  made! 

Then  bringing  all  his  skill  to  bear,  the  surgeon  of 

the  trees 
As  deftly  mixed  a  healing  mass  and  filled  the 

cavities  1 
"Now  it  will  live,"  I  heard  him  say,  when  he  had 

found  each  ill, 
And  I,  impressed  and  confident,  said:  "Yes,  I 

think  it  will." 

For  who  could  have  but  honest  faith  in  surgeons 
such  as  he  ? 

A  man  whose  simple  title  is  Physician  to  a  Tree. 

And  who  will  say  trees  have  no  souls  ? — or  cour- 
age to  insist 

God  does  not  bless  the  labor  of  this  leaf-evange- 
list? 


THE  END 


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